


When Your True Destiny Is To Lead

by AnonAnton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angelic Possession, Angst, Anti-Possession Tattoos, Barebacking, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blood, Blow Jobs, Branding, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel and Jimmy Novak Are Twins, Established Castiel/Jimmy Novak, Fluff, Gay Castiel, Gay Jimmy Novak, Gore, Hurt Dean Winchester, Imprisonment, Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rape/Non-con Elements, Secret Relationship, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Somnophilia, Switch Castiel, Switch Jimmy, Tattoos, Threesome - M/M/M, Twincest, Voyeurism, dcjbigbang, dcjbigbang2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 22:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 81,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonAnton/pseuds/AnonAnton
Summary: When Henry Winchester started the apocalypse; sacrificing himself to save his son’s life, he had no idea what he would bring about. If he had known, he wouldn't have believed heaven would lose.Now, in 2017, Henry's grandsons; Sam and Dean, struggle to survive in a world where Lucifer walks the Earth, demons and victims of the Croatoan virus destroy everything in their path, and angels are selfish and frightened.It's been eight years since the Winchesters formed Camp Salvage. Eight years of hunting, fighting and protecting those around them. Dean is tired. He's tired of being responsible for so much. But there isn't an end in sight. The Devil toys with the world, and it won't be long until the Croats kill them all. Dean is done. He's had enough of fighting losing odds. Then—they hear word of an angel. Dean puts his game face on once more, leading a team in search of answers, help, or simply retribution.What they find instead, sends them into a tailspin that can only end two ways; wholesale destruction, the final, true end of all things, or the longest of shots; they win.With some unexpected tactical advantages, maybe Dean finally stands a chance: not just to survive, but to find a reason to want to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [anonymousantonym](http://anonymousantonym.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you'd like to come say hello.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If nothing else, I adore this fic, because I made a great friend in my beta [Shannon-kind](https://shannon-kind.tumblr.com/) (on [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shannon_Kind/pseuds).) Without her this fic would be no where near as good; you'd have many Britishisms to wade through, and lots of rogue 'u's, and strange capitalisations. So follow her, read her things, she is a beautiful person who deserves all the love.
> 
> I also want to thank my wonderful artist [Kuwlshadow](http://kuwlshadow.tumblr.com/) who turned my words into wonderful visuals. It has been an honour seeing my story come to life through your art. Go check out the other things this brilliant artist has done!
> 
> Lastly, I want to thank the mods at [DCJ Big Bang.](https://dcjbigbang.tumblr.com/) You guys have done a wonderful job, answering queries, sending out clear info, and coming up with the idea in the first place. You're all awesome.
> 
> Now; on to the story.
> 
> If you like what I've written, I will love for for ever for kudos and comments, likes and reblogs.
> 
> Enjoy X  
> Anon Anton

Dean Winchester awoke with a start, gasping as he sat bolt upright in his bed, scrabbling for his gun kept safe beneath his pillow. The covers fell about his waist exposing the cold sweat on his chest. The fleeting images faded quickly; glaring yellow eyes, bright fire, his father's face laughing, _wrong_ , then an eerie red glow. Destruction.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the vivid collage, staring a moment into the darkness. He began to shiver in the cold night air.

A discomforted whine sounded by his hip, pulling his attention back. He looked dispassionately down at the girl who had shared her body and his bed the previous night. Julie something? He couldn’t remember her last name. She was definitely part of the cooking staff— He shrugged dismissively. It wasn't really important and she knew the deal.

Without a backward glance he swung his bare legs out of the bed and hauled himself upright. Oblivious to his nudity in the frigid air, he strode from the bedroom to the living area and the shuttered window, cracking it open just enough to confirm his suspicions. The sky was that inky black-blue denoting the absolute dark of night. Heavy cloud cover hid even the moon. His skin prickled in the cold.

Without checking his wind up clock he couldn't be sure, and wasting candles or lighting the fire wasn't an option, but he figured it must be close to four thirty in the morning.

He gritted his teeth and swiped his palm over his unshaven jaw. Since he was up and awake he might as well check on the perimeter guards. They always appreciated knowing that they weren't the only ones conscious and alert at God awful hours, ensuring the safety of the camp.

He closed the shutter and, ignoring the goosebumps spreading across his skin, retrieved his scattered clothes. He snagged his shoulder holster from where he had left it on the chair, and heaped the girl's clothes in it’s place. He scowled at the rip in the thigh of his jeans, mirrored by a, still vivid, red scar on his leg. He would have to ask Ellen to arrange for someone to fix the tear for him, that or he could get another pair from their precious, and fast dwindling stores. He couldn't face wearing the hand made clothing the camp were slowly being forced to accept. His frown deepened when he thought of what they would have to do once their stash of boots and shoes ran dry. Then, he remembered his calculations, depressing as they were, and decided that boots were the least of their worries.

He shrugged, deciding to just wear the jeans, ripped as they were, until they disintegrated.

He stomped into the bedroom in search of his boots, and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed to lace them up, forgetting that a woman still lay there, sleeping. He winced briefly, hoping he hadn't woken her. He had neither the time nor the patience for morning-after small talk. He let out a breath when she didn't stir, pleased that he could do as normal, and assume she would let herself out once she awoke. He hoped that she would have the presence of mind not to mention it to him again.

Quietly, he finished lacing his boots, fastened his shoulder holster then swung a flannel on and shoved his jacket on over the top. He grabbed the gun that was propped in a rack by the entrance, sliding one knife into his sock, and another into the holster at his chest. He picked up his ammo and slung a shotgun across his back on it's strap.

He slipped silently out of the door into the pre-dawn, bitterly cold air of February in South Dakota.

-

The grass under his feet crunched as he stamped his way between the collection of shacks and huts the camp had sprouted over the years. He skirted the main house, Bobby's home before the croatoan virus turned eighty percent of the population into a rabid mass intent on spreading their sickness. The route he took was rarely used, allowing the incursion of green, rather than the slick, frozen and thawed mud paths the general populous took. Dean liked the longer route, the narrow ways between the permanent tents, and wooden dorms, via hidden out of the way places. It gave him space and time to think, to reflect. It allowed him a moment to hide from everyone demanding his time. It was a tiny rebellion, an escape.

As he squeezed between the corner of a wood pile and the back walls of two cabins, he broke through the outer ring of the main camp and into a wide stretch of unkempt grass land, sometimes used for grazing. He marched through the darkness until he hit the tree line of the rough woodland that had once sat in a wide arc at the furthest edge of Bobby's property; Singer's Salvage Yard, as once was. Now, it was the perimeter of a large portion of the camp, providing shelter, fuel and a smoke-screen to ward off the croats. Within the ring of woodland was another cleared space, well back from the outer wall of trees and just wide enough to prevent anything climbing the trees to scale the sixteen foot high metal fence. Watch towers punctuated the defence, set just above the height of the heavy canopy.

He had picked a new path through the long grass toward one of the towers, not too far from their secondary gate, the one that led to a swathe of farmland. It was their main source of grain, and the primary reason their camp survived and flourished, the beer they were able to produce from the grain always achieving a good price in barter for other goods and services they couldn't provide themselves with. It was also their greatest vulnerability, they couldn’t protect the whole of their lands with tall fences or regular patrols. There simply weren't enough people.

He passed under the canopy of pines, slapping his hand gratefully against the white painted sigil glowing weakly in the darkness, just discernible on the squat trunk of a tree. It matched another fifteen sigils, one for each compass point, protecting the camp from detection by those who would look, and from penetration by the lower orders of the supernatural. It was the last line of defence, sitting within their outer protections; fences, spells and patrolling men and women. Their last effort at concealment, a huge spell stretched to its limit to protect the camp.

As he strode between trees, letting his feet find the path his eyes could not see, he thought about the day ahead of him. He needed to send out a hunting party for food, Chuck had mentioned that they were running low on a number of things. Another group would have to go out for salt, a long and dangerous mission these days, since they had exhausted all the stores locally. He remembered that Ash had asked to go on the next reconnaissance mission to the nearest city too, in need of spare parts for what small electronics they still ran through the solar generator he had rigged up.

“Halt!” Came a voice, low and hoarse, spooked.

“It's me, Jase.” He answered, stalling his progress through the wood nonetheless, surprised to have made his destination already. He nodded in approval of the quick response, proving his men weren't just looking beyond woods and farmland for intruders, but keeping an eye on the interior too. He listened as a shuffling sounded, then the thumps of feet descending the wooden steps of the watchtower to the lower platform. “Dean?” asked Jase, “Couldn't sleep?”

“Something like that,” he answered gruffly. They both knew he ended up talking to the look-outs in the dead of night at least twice a week. “All quiet?”

“As the grave my friend,” the guard replied.

Dean grunted acknowledgement. “The patrol go through at two?”

Jase hummed his agreement, clearly aware that Dean couldn't see him in the tree covered dark. Dean heard him rub his hands together though, trying to warm his fingers in the cold air. “Good work Jase,” he said quietly. “Go on,” he continued, indicating that Jase should get back up into the relative warmth of the hideout up there, where a tiny stove was probably warming his feet as much as the strong ale he would need to keep the cold at bay as he scanned the vista, hand ready by the warning bell.

He strolled on along the perimeter, ducking under low hanging branches, and straying between the trees until he came to the next watchtower in the chain. He allowed himself to enjoy each crunch his boots made as frozen grass snapped where the tree cover allowed it to grow. This tower was only just hidden in the tree line before the pines gave way abruptly to clear ground, frozen mud treacherous with foot and hoof prints and the deep ruts of their carts. This was the main entrance to the compound, the main route to the unprotected farms and the one through which the patrols entered and left four times a day.

“Winchester!” called a friendly voice from above his head. The cover of night-blackened trees obscured everything, even as he stepped into a clearing beneath the tower. “Gerry?” Dean questioned, looking up in the darkness, unable to see the source of the voice. “It's me,” the man agreed.

“I thought Tiny was on tonight?” Dean _knew_ he was supposed to have been. He was the one who wrote the timetables and rotas. And he didn't like them being changed.

“He was,” replied the burly ex-biker, just as the moon broke through the clouds, bathing everything silver. “He twisted his ankle on all that God forsaken mud on his way over, landed hard. Troy ran 'n got me ‘cause I ain't scheduled for patrol tomorrow. Tiny'll swap a shift back when he's up again.”

Dean nodded, knowing that Gerry could see him down on the ground, even though he still couldn't see a thing looking up with the moon bright above him, ruining his night vision. “All quiet?” he repeated his now familiar question.

“You know it. This time o' year, I think even the croats feel the cold.” Dean nodded again.

“Morning crew will be on the move in just over an hour I think,” Dean told Gerry, still on the wooden platform of the watch tower well above his head. “Keep up the good work ‘til then, then go grab an October in the canteen.”

He heard a chuckle, deep and throaty, “Don’t you worry about that Cap, wasn't planning on doin' anything but.”

Dean smiled at the man, fantasizing about grabbing a mug of the heavy October brewed, winter beer himself, strong and perfect warmed a little by the fire. Until he thought about that, he hadn't realized how cold he was in only a few thin layers, the moonlight highlighting the frozen, frost-hardened ground and the breath condensing in the air before him.

He strode forward a little, meeting the vertical bars of the perimeter fence, and following them until he broke the tree cover and replaced the crunch of frozen leaves with the staccato beat of his boots hitting frozen and refrozen mud, solid as stone and twice as slippery.

Once he cleared the deep dark of the trees, he pushed his face up to the bars, all but un-scaleable, and eyed the wide road entering the camp, fields spanning either side, fallow and bare in the frost. He could just make out the shifting shadow of, what he thoroughly hoped, was a patrol, and not a group of croats. Their formation too tight, gait too even for that, but there was always a risk. He let out a breath after a few moments, when Gerry didn't put up an alarm. His shoulders relaxed and he turned from the fence, idly wiping the rust from his hand to his thigh, wincing as his icy fingers touched his bared skin through the tear.

Slowly and carefully, he picked his way through the rutted, solid roadway, aiming for the Canteen and HQ.

-

“Mornin' Princess.” Bobby groused as he walked into the lounge of what once was his home, and now did duty as Camp Salvage's Headquarters and Council room.

The room was warm, and Dean's hands warmer, clutched around a chipped mug filled with steaming ale. His elbows were propped on the table that now filled the space where once old overstuffed couches and piles of books had stood.

“Old man,” he acknowledged, getting a clip to the back of his head for his troubles as the man passed by. Dean smiled, Bobby was one of the few who had absolutely no qualms about treating him the same way he always had, there was no hero worship, no fear, no misplaced respect. Dean clung to every insult, every eye roll and every 'idjit.'

“You sleep?” Bobby asked, his voice still rough. It was just past six, and Dean was on his second mug of warming ale, the previous days reports, forms and acquisition sheets spread on the table before him. Pulpy sheets of homemade paper, or small, reused, ratty stained pieces making up everything the Camp needed to tell him.

Dean made a non-committal noise in his throat before shrugging and shaking his head. “Not much. Checked in with Gerry and Jase, then poked my head in over at Medical. Tiny's laid up for a week or more. Grabbed a drink and started work on reassigning the rotas. Sorting through Chuck's crap now. Then Ellen's got the Spring season to start planning, not much there I need to know. Just waiting on Hammer to finish warming up before he comes in with the overnight reports.”

He ran through his paperwork tasks, the both of them knowing that he was just killing time before the overnights came in. There were a small network of crude mail boxes across the area, fixed high to trees. The three friendly camps they were closest to were able to share reports of the whole area, to communicate news of croats, bad weather, Lucifer— The standard stuff. He grimaced at what his life had become.

The patrols took reports with them from HQ before heading out and dropped them, the later patrol picking up the reports left by the other camp's teams and bringing them in first thing, along with the reports of each team's individual information, too. It was, technically, Bobby's job to read the reports, then to pass the information to Dean, but Dean usually took the task upon himself, letting Bobby concentrate on the intelligence gathering from across a much wider area.

It worked, and those reports shaped Dean's days, telling him where groups of demons were moving, or whether croats were closing in again. A large laminated map of the area they could cover in three days on horseback covered a wall, their precious dry erase markers used to plot the dangers as they moved through their territory.

Bobby just grunted and sat himself opposite Dean at the table, swiping a handful of the acquisition sheets that Chuck used to keep an eye on their stores of 'old world' items, as they had all begun to think of them. Things that they couldn't manufacture, but that they either wanted or needed, nonetheless. Chuck had put in a request for a team to be sent out to look for sanitary and baby-related supplies, as well as his request for meat. “Amy getting near her time?” Bobby questioned, slight surprise in his tone.

Dean nodded. Time _had_ moved quickly and the announcement that they needed to start gathering diapers and onesies had made him raise his eyebrows too. Amy was the first mother-to-be in the camp, in the whole eight years they had been stuck in this dreadful new world, and The Savage's, as the people of their camp were known in the vicinity, were certainly many things. Made up of a hard group of people who had close knit links to those who lived and loved at the Roadhouse Bar. Drinkers, yes, but bikers too. And Hunters. A handful of scrappy vagrants and an even smaller number of 'good' supernatural creatures. They were hard, competent, knowledgeable and adaptable. The partners of those with more practical skills learned farming and nursing, teaching and building. But the one thing they had never had to teach themselves as a camp was how to deliver a baby. Bess Myers, a second generation werewolf, had volunteered to take up that mantle, and Dean had sent a large team to the nearest city with a teaching hospital, taking all equipment and books they could find on the matter. It had been a three week round trip for them, but worth it. “How's Bess' readin' coming along?” Dean looked up at Bobby and half shrugged.

“She's doing okay. Pretty confidant. They reckon Amy has about five weeks to go I think,” he stated, before being interrupted by his brother, Sam, walking through the door. He placed a fresh mug of ale, this time thin and watery, in front of Dean, and a steaming mug of the strong stuff in front of Bobby. He sipped at his own mug as he sat, long legs stretching out under the table.

Dean pulled a face at the diluted, ‘small’ beer, but drank anyway. Water was no longer safe to drink unless boiled and filtered. The majority of their drinking water was used to make their beer, the recycled ingredients making the thinner, weaker small beer he sipped at slowly. They had come to the conclusion early on that if they were going to have to store liquid to drink, it may as well taste of something, other than tepid, stale water. It didn't mean that the small beer was especially _nice_ though.

“Hammer's on his way.” Sam stated, rubbing his hand through his long hair, swiping it off his forehead. Dean grunted through his mouthful, swallowed and started piling the morning's work into a neat stack, making room for the overnights.

Dean opened his mouth to ask if Sam was expecting anything in the reports, but a crackling hissing noise broke the silence from the office side of the building. Bobby hummed a noise of disapproval before levering himself to his feet and stalking through the double doors to his private domain, closing them behind himself. Dean and Sam looked at each other uneasily, listening to the low murmur of Bobby's voice as he answered the radio.

“Call come in?” a sudden voice asked, making the brothers crane their necks to look at the doorway where Ellen stood, a huge tray in her arms, covered in bowls of scrambled eggs. “Ellen,” Dean greeted warmly, while Sam got up and took the tray from her, placing it on the table. Ash—mullet and torn flannels disguising his genius well—walked in from behind her, and dropped spoons on the wooden surface, before grabbing a bowl and digging in without waiting a moment. “Yeah, just now,” he continued, in answer to her question.

Ellen was a strong, hard woman. Robbed of her husband, she had stepped up to the mark, raising their daughter, Jo, and running the Roadhouse as a hub for Hunters, not something for the weak of heart, or the weak of arm. She nodded, graying auburn hair swaying about her shoulders, and sat down, pulling a mug off the tray too, and digging into her own breakfast. Richard and Justin, the two hard, burly bikers from the Roadhouse who helped pull their diverse team into a true camp, finally walked in and sat at the table like there was no question they belonged there, pulling their own breakfasts toward them. Soon, the whole team that founded and led Camp Salvage and the Savages, barring Bobby, were seated and eating heartily.

Just as Dean pushed his empty bowl away, Hammer walked in and stood nervously at the edge of the room, offering a short nod to Richard and Justin. Despite being a trusted member of the patrol team, boasting the Camp tattoo, and being a six foot three, heavy set and well muscled ex-biker, the man had never gotten over his reverence of Dean and others of their core team, even the other bikers. The day the Devil broke the world and the supernatural suddenly became an everyday occurrence, Hammer's world view was shaken to it's core, he understood that all his muscle and 'hard man' persona meant shit when it came to victims of the croatoan virus.

“The overnights, sir,” his coarse voice stated as he dropped the creased and damp papers on the table next to Dean. He rolled his eyes in response, but so Hammer couldn't see. He appreciated the man too much to make him feel bad, but Dean hated the way Hammer and many of the others treated him. He was just a man, like any other in the camp, working hard to keep them all alive.

“Thanks Hammer. Anything else to report? Snow? Rabbits? Lucifer?” He tried to lighten the mood a little, but Hammer, as ever, remained solemn. “No, sir,” he answered shaking his head. Dean sighed, as he watched Bobby re-enter the room. “Great, you can go grab some food and get to sleep, buddy.” He told the great hulking man who stood staring at his still frost tipped boots.

Once Hammer had vacated the building, Dean started flicking through the reports. Nothing stood out in the first few pages. Ellen fussed about Bobby, pushing his eggs toward him and placing another warm mug of ale in his hand. Dean only looked up when Bobby cleared his throat.

The man's expression was bleak.

“There anything in them reports there about an angel on the move?” he asked with false innocence in his tone.

The room had already been quiet. Now it was silent. The air vibrated with sudden tension, the normality of the daily morning meeting suddenly shattered.

“An angel,” Dean stated, flat and uninflected. All eyes were on Bobby.

The older man leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his diminished gut. “An angel,” he agreed.

“We haven't heard of an angel, except Lucifer, since Michael died,” Sam said, disbelief clear in his voice, but not sufficient to hide his excitement.

Dean looked down, that disbelief, mixed with fear rather than excitement, echoed in his heart, if not his expression. He riffled through the reports to see if there were any mentions of an angel. “Nothin'.”

“That figures,” Bobby continued, “he's over up on Route 23, moving in toward Marshall, according to Rufus.” Everyone at the table, including Justin and Rich, perked up slightly at the mention of the old Hunter. He was off grid, living alone. How he survived the croats, demons and rest of the supernatural creatures still at large, no one knew, but it was always good to hear from him, to know that he was alive and kicking.

“Making a bit of noise with some croats,” Bobby finished, nodding his head. Dean didn't react, though, only looking back at the overnights in his hand, mud spattered and frost damp. Everyone sat in silence until he was finished scanning the papers properly. It was his job to protect the camp, and he wouldn't send a team to check out a potential angel sighting until he was certain he wasn't leaving the camp, their people and their land, unprotected.

“Okay, we’ll be good here for a while,” Dean grunted, eyeing each of the founders in turn, Bobby on intelligence, Ellen on camp affairs and beer production, Ash on power and technology, Sam on everything knowledge and Men Of Letters based, including teaching and training, Rich, surprisingly, head of farming and Justin heading up the patrol and guard teams.

“Sammy?” Dean continued. “Go round up Chuck and arrange supplies, make sure we got all the holy oil in there, okay?” He glanced at Bobby next while thinking that they should really promote Chuck to the Council. He was officially Ellen's second in command, but with him controlling supplies, it wasn't fair to keep him from the planning. “Bobby, you know what to do. Ash? Can you find Randy? I need horses mounted. Ellen, food, water and beer please. Justin, go grab a cart and meet me at the armoury. I'm going to go get the troops rounded up.”

With that he slapped his left hand on the table, camp tattoo vivid, and pushed himself upright. He strode from the room with purpose and a small buzz of excitement in his gut, tempered by a whisper of fear. They had yet to meet an angel that had proved good, that had helped, had saved lives.

 _An angel_. First sighting in almost eight God damned years. They needed answers, and no pathetic hint of fear was going to stop him from getting information. They needed help. Without angelic help, they were fighting a losing battle just to survive, let alone take down the Devil and end this miserable excuse for an apocalypse.

Outside, the sun was just rising, the light more than enough to see by, if gray and bleak.

“Tommy! Helen! Baz! Kat! Sophie! Kyle! Dan!” He yelled, knowing their quarters were close by, and if they weren't in the canteen, across the frozen stretch of mud, they would hear his yell in the yard from their huts.

He waited a few moments, glaring into the distance idly until the hunters and fighters appeared. “You, Kat, Soph, Tom. With me,” he pointed at the three who were fully dressed, “the rest of you get dressed and find the teams, let the lieutenants know. We're moving out in thirty, okay?”

He didn't get answers, just nods, but it was more than enough. He turned and marched across the mud, picking a path through the cart tracks to the armoury, Kat, Sophie and Tom following behind in silence.

The armoury was just another wooden hut, rough hewn and built in a rush when the croats started multiplying in huge numbers. It was abandoned to municipal use after warmer, more comfortable quarters were built. The only discernible difference was that a guard stood outside at all times, mostly to prevent the children from getting inside and causing havoc. It was never locked. They needed unhindered access twenty-four hours a day.

Thirty-seven minutes later, a team led by Dean, Sam as second-in-command, and with about thirty strong and able hunters and fighters, rode out. Their horses were laden down with weapons, both supernatural and mundane, and enough food and water to last two days. A thrumming tension filled the air, as it always did when a team left unexpectedly. Children and partners silently lined the route to wave them off, stoic expressions hiding their fear that they'd never see their loved ones again, or whether their leader, the one they feared, would have to shoot yet another victim of infection in front of them all. He shuddered at the memories, and focused on the route Bobby had shown him, ignoring the worried faces as he trotted past. Pounding hooves beat the ground as they left the camp, breath from man and beast clouding the air.

“Come on, Falcon.” Dean murmured under his breath, patting his horse's neck. He hated horses, huge, skittish and terrifying, but necessary, and despite his latent fear of him, he did love his gray gelding. Love, yes, but was still prone to treating him like his Baby, his old Chevy Impala that he missed on a daily basis. Gas, though, had run all but dry years ago. They had a small emergency stash on site and they kept their small fleet of well hidden trucks ready to go, in case they needed to evacuate at speed for whatever reason. But, otherwise, Falcon and the other horses were their entire means of transportation.

Louder, he repeated “Come on,” and spurred Falcon into a canter, knowing his men would follow. He relished the clean, cold air rushing past him as he led his men toward uncertainty and danger, and, he hoped vainly, a solution to all their problems.

-

Dean slowed the team to a walk as they approached the outskirts of the ruined town. Most roads were in bad shape after almost eight years of weather damage and no upkeep, but near habitations the roads were much worse. Potholes were the least of the issues, as demons and croats had torn up anything they could, for reasons they kept to themselves. If an angel or Lucifer himself had passed through, they were lucky if a single building remained standing. They had discovered towns where the asphalt was nothing more than a black smear, scarred and filled with twisted metal and melted pipes. Buildings nothing more than rubble, razed entirely to the ground.

Marshall hadn't been torn up too much, but the evidence of the croatoan virus was everywhere. Skeletons lay bleached and bare along the side of the road, even this far from the center of the town. Dean eyed them emotionlessly. He remembered when the flesh still mouldered on the bone, spreading the stench of death for miles around. No one had been left to care for the dead, the virus taking the living, and leaving them where they dropped from rabid exhaustion or starvation. This was better. Much better.

“Sammy!”

Sam, on Ghost, his large black mare, trotted up to Dean's side. “Dean?”

Dean shrugged minutely, eyeing the first few buildings on the spartan road. “This is where Bobby said we needed to be, right?” he asked, knowing he was correct, but the calm silence making him doubt himself a moment.

Sam shrugged. “He said that Rufus knew that the angel was moving South on this road, and that our probable journey time meant that we would meet it about here. Assuming it kept moving. We've been riding nearly five hours now. So, maybe we should dismount and make our way on foot through the town?”

Dean scowled. Running missions in towns and cities created a dilemma when it came to the croatoan virus. The need for protection meant that the larger the group, the safer. Yet, the more people, the more likely they were to attract croats. Often, he ran covert missions alone, without telling anyone, simply to get the deed done. But here they needed the numbers if they were going to capture themselves an angel.

“Let's ride in a little further. I'll head a scouting team, see if we can find this son of a bitch. Then we'll pull in the rest of the team.” Dean thought it a good compromise between running in all guns blazing and attracting them some croats, and the more cautious approach he knew Sam would have preferred.

Sam pulled a face but nodded, making Dean smile at his correct assumption. Sam never had the chance to get to the initiation stage of the Men Of Letters, the organization that their Grandfather had belonged to. On missions he still deferred to the hunter that he and his brother had been _raised_ to be. But Dean understood what had irritated his brother. That stolen chance at becoming a Man of Letters, a man of learning, was still ingrained in him, and as such Sam led that aspect of the camp. Sam would want to talk with the angel, negotiate if need be, and he knew Dean would fight more readily than he would. But Dean thought he understood angels better than his brother, or at least had a better memory, and a less forgiving nature. It was only common sense to scout _and_ bring the team in. They couldn't assume the angel would be willing to talk, especially when no other ever had.

“Send out a team on a patrol, Okay? Three and a runner’ll do,” he told Sam before turning away. “Marcus? With me. Tory, Marie, Helen. We'll scout ahead. Guns out, eyes and ears open.”

With that he kicked Falcon into a trot, allowing the remainder of the party to save their horses and follow at a walk, Sam stepping in to lead.

-

As they came to a halt and dismounted, hidden well behind an almost intact house, Dean was already on edge. The place was too quiet. They may not be in the hot zone, but it wasn’t unusual to see one or two croats wandering aimlessly, or to even find a handful of houses barricaded up and inhabited. Here, there was nothing, just the bitter wind whistling along empty streets and through rattling branches, blowing the leaves across the frost covered asphalt.

They left the horses tied to the fence of a deserted property, clear to the team following, but hidden enough, and continued on foot. Dean led. Marcus, a leather clad ex-biker, nearly as wide as he was tall, followed behind, turning on his heel every few steps, while Tory and Marie had the center, watching their flanks. Helen brought up the rear, most of her attention behind them, gun at the ready.

“Holy shit,” Marcus whispered after fifteen minutes of tense silence as they crept along the road. They had just approached a cross street, but Dean couldn't see anything to justify Marcus's words. “Left,” the man said hoarsely. Dean looked and saw. A pile of bones. Ribs and long bones, pelvises and vertebrae, stacked haphazardly by the side of the road. A mound about thigh high and twice as wide, blackened, frozen flesh still clung to the bleached bone in places. Dean was not proud that his gorge did _not_ rise at the sight.

It was a warning. A stark one.

He scanned the rest of the area knowing what to expect, he still cringed when he found it. Opposite the heaped skeletons, marking the other side of the road was the second pile. Scattered, either by gravity, wildlife or inquisitive and hungry croats, no longer in the tidy heap they would have once been, were the skulls.

“Stop,” he said, quiet and firm, listening as their footsteps come to a halt behind him. He needed a moment to process. The kind of warning the bones represented was fairly clear. Do not enter. This is what will greet you. But, he wasn't the kind of leader to bow quietly out at the first sign of trouble. They had an angel to find.

He jerked his head toward the pile of long bones and ribs, and started edging that way, a line of bare trees separating them from the new road they followed, further into the town.

“Think there's a camp inside?” Marie asked from behind Dean.

He shrugged. “Hard to tell. Those bones are old, but the people who put them there could still be here. I think we can assume they ain't friendly though.” He flexed his left hand, a reminder of who they were and what they stood for inked into his skin. Glad they had never resorted to such means to protect their own.

They walked further into the town, buildings, intact and ruined, increasing as they progressed. They remained tense and silent as they saw barricades, ripped and shredded, and doors swinging eerily, showing the interiors of recently vacated homes. After five minutes, every sense alert for anything, Dean raised his hand to halt his squad. Indistinct noises finally reached his ears, breaking the unnatural silence of the town. With a few flicks of his wrist he ordered his men to spread out, keeping well hidden. “Tory,” he hissed, plucking at her sleeve as she passed, “with me.”

Placing their feet carefully to avoid the sound of crunching, frozen grass, he and Tory inched forward, leaving the rest of the team behind. Keeping the meager screen of the bare trees to their right, they continued along their path, following the road, following the recent destruction, following the sound.

The road opened up, revealing a wide T-intersection.

The asphalt was not empty.

“Good God,” huffed out Tory, and Dean saw her fingers twitch on the trigger of the gun she was carrying, held low.

“Easy,” he murmured, not wanting an accidental shot fired because of nerves. They needed their position to remain secret a little longer.

Slowly, Dean sank into a crouch, lowering one knee to the cold and wet ground. He tried hard not to let his fear and disbelief show.

There, in the center of the T-shaped junction, were the smouldering remains of a circle of holy oil, the stink just touching their nostrils. Alongside the scorched circle stood a herd of vacant eyed men and women, many baring scratches and bite marks, but otherwise looking well fed and healthy.

Inside the circle lay a crumpled and broken body, too still, wide burnt looking marks blackening the road's surface in twin arcs from it's shoulders. _Angel's wings_.

To the other side of the circle lay a small pile of the rabid looking, skeletal corpses of recently killed croats.

Next to the angel's corpse in the holy oil circle, a tall, dark haired man was just standing from a crouch, an exultant grin splitting his face.

As Dean watched, he turned to the blank faced crowd, still grinning and began talking emphatically, waving his arms wide, his audience following his every word.

Not one of them looked scared or worried. With recently extinguished holy oil, dead croats and a murdered angel, Dean couldn't believe their disinterest, their complete lack of fear.

“What the fuck?” he asked quietly under his breath, wondering what insanity they had uncovered, what new impossibility he would have to deal with. He looked up at Tory, whose face mirrored the utter confusion he felt. “We need Sammy and the others,” he stated.

“Now.”

He listened as her swift footsteps retreated behind him, glaring at the dark haired man. Was he, too, an angel?

Only an angel could kill an angel after all.


	2. Chapter 2

“But what do we do about the people?” Sam asked horsely, concern evident in his voice, on his face.

It had taken ten minutes for Tory to go back and fetch Sam, leaving the rest of the squad waiting by the bone piles. Sam, still breathing hard from running, had joined Dean in kneeling down in the cold grass, and listened as Dean explained what they had discovered. They now watched the being who still stood before his subjects, speaking in low, intense tones, as if preaching. His audience devoid of expression, emotion.

Dean shrugged. “I don't know. I'm not even sure they are people. Well, not any more. They're bitten up, man. They gotta be croats, right? Recently turned maybe?” He paused to point again at the wasted corpses of the croatoan victims. “It takes a while for the symptoms to show...” He left the sentence hanging, unsure how to continue. If they were infected recently, they ought to be panicking, scared, in pain. But they all just sat there, staring almost unblinkingly up at the man who talked at them, stiff backed and jerky of movement. Dean scowled, they were too far away to hear the ring-leader's words, the man or creature that they had decided to trap and interrogate. Dean, though, wholeheartedly believed it was a second angel.

Sam, his tone contemplative, voiced Dean’s concerns for him. “You don’t think he’ll help.”

Dean glared at the figure in the road, eyes flicking to the burnt out angel corpse on the ground. A sick kind of desolation welled up in his belly as he shook his head.

Resenting the obvious fact that this creature wasn't benign, he pulled in a breath. “He won’t. He’s already murdered one of his brothers. What chance do we have of him helping us?” Dean spared his brother a glance. “What makes you think he’ll listen?”

At Sam’s silence, Dean shrugged. “Asking for help is off the cards.” They would have to take what they could, he thought with resignation, as he watched the being continue to lecture his audience.

“Fuck it,” he finally spat out, tired of his own indecision. “Let's get the rope out 'n trap the fucker, the spells should do the trick, if not the fire.” He hoped that regardless of what the being was, his plan would hold him. “We'll deal with the people if we need to. I guess the main problem is in trapping them in with him.” He looked to Sam. “I can't see any way to only trap him. I don't wanna lose 'em on the flames if they are people. 'N if they're croats, I don't wanna give him an escape route.” He banished the disgust at himself, his own brutality. Decisions had to be made, and he was the one who had to make them.

Sam stared at the man a moment, clearly thinking the problem over. “Diversion?”

“And risk feathers there fluttering off?” he asked, having already thought through every possibility that had come to mind while he waited on Sam arriving.

Sam hummed agreement. No one trusted an angel to stick around when things got hot, and they certainly didn't give a shit about their vessels or their subordinates. The Winchesters had learned that the hard way.

“Shoot 'em?” He suggested, only half in jest. Sam shot him a _look._ “Fine. It was just a suggestion,” Dean replied testily. “What if we _know_ they're croats?” He honestly didn't _want_ to have to kill innocents.

-

Sam threw another critical look over the scene, shifting where he knelt, peering through the cover of trees beside his brother. The being, Dean was convinced he was a second angel, and Sam had to agree, still stood stiffly, gesturing a little with his arms at the rapt crowd, his face solemn, despite Dean's description of his leering grin earlier.

Dean was correct that there was evidence of the bites covering the now placid men, women and children. Sam grimaced. Bites meant an infection. An infection meant insanity, a rabid thirst for human flesh and blood, a need for destruction and no sense of self. These people were not behaving like croats regularly did. Even in the early stages. Sam couldn't be sure that the angel hadn't somehow healed them, had perhaps cured the virus. 

Hope swelled in his chest.

“Screw it,” Dean suddenly snapped. “We can't save everyone Sam. If they're human and we get 'em killed we're just going to have to deal with it. We need to catch that creepy son of a bitch and find out what the fuck's going on.” Sam nodded. To catch an angel, or, at the very least, a being capable of killing one, would improve their knowledge hugely, would help them fight Lucifer, help them battle the apocalypse.

Sam couldn't help shooting Dean a loaded glance at the words though. His brother never used to be so callous. He sighed internally as he pulled himself to his feet. That wasn't strictly true. After their mom was killed, John, their dad, put a lot of pressure on Dean to look after him. He became more than simply a big brother. When they weren't being looked after by their Grandfather Henry, or by Bobby or Pastor Jim, Dean was the one to feed him and clothe him, teach him and care for him. As a child, his brother had been caring, but always hard, fearless and strong, a born Hunter. Sam knew, that at thirty-eight, his brother still cared, but it never shone through any more. Nearly eight years running a camp, trying to save a group of scared people from an apocalypse, had left Dean making hard decisions, sometimes having to sacrifice a few for the many. Sam could see each time Dean did it, another thread of that caring boy was pulled free and left behind him.

He nodded to show he was behind his Dean's decision, though. After all, what other option was there?

Dean pulled in a deep breath as if steeling himself and nodded once in return. He stood fluidly and rolled his shoulders as if readying himself for the orders he was about to give. Orders that would decide the fate of not only his men, but a man who may be an angel, and croats who may be innocents.

They returned to their team at a crouched half run. The men and women stood in a loose circle, guns and knives at the ready, waiting, tense and silent.

Sam, once again, eyed the gruesome piles of bones, shuddering internally at what they represented. Some people, in order to remain safe, had resorted to extreme violence, killing anything that came close, whether croat, demon, beast, or man.

He turned his attention back to Dean, who's face was a mask, and positioned himself a little behind his brother, backup both metaphorical and physical.

“Okay. Here's what we're gonna do,” Dean began, voice flat and commanding. Sam shifted uneasily, disliking this _thing_ his brother became. “Split yourselves  into five teams. I want Teams A and B to circle round. You all need the ropes and matches. You know how far apart you need to be. Use building cover. I do not want you seen, you hear me?”

“C, you've got it toughest. I want you spread out in the angel's eye line. Again there's buildings over there. D and E, you guys need to spread out on this side. There's no cover, so keep back as far as the ropes will allow you.”

Sam watched silently as their men nodded gravely. They were well seasoned enough for the natural leaders, the unnamed lieutenants, to take the lead, each taking a team, shuffling into groups even as Dean continued.

“I'll distract the bastard and that's your signal. Okay?” Again, the teams nodded, frowns etching their brows. “No sigils. No magic. We don't want to give the motherfucker a heads up that we're here okay?”

This time Dean's audience smirked a little and muttered their agreement. Sam gritted his teeth, watching his brother be accepted as their fearless leader. He knew Dean hated it, but he stepped up to the role without complaint. Sometimes, Sam thought, he stepped up _too_ easily, was _too_ good at it.

Hoof beats, staccato and unbearably loud, suddenly interrupted the scene. Sam stiffened as a breathless voice called “Sir!”

Frowning Sam pushed forward. “Ryan, isn't it?” he asked, recognizing one of the team he had sent out on patrol. The man nodded, face a mask of fear and strain.

“What's happened?” Dean interrupted harshly, snapping straight into an even more brutally tense version of himself. “I— You better come. Demons. On the move. Here.” 

“Shit,” Dean hissed. “We gotta be onto something if the demons want it too. Where are the rest of the patrol? We better go. Sammy?”

Sam turned to look at his brother, who had fear and worry etched deep into his face. “You got this?” Dean asked, and he nodded. All he needed to do was give the teams time to get into position before making a signal. 

“I got this. Go.” His brother would be better fighting demons than interrogating an angel in any case, and they both knew it, even if Dean never said such things aloud.

He watched as his brother strode quickly after the scout toward his own horse.

He let out a breath, pulling his attention purposefully from Dean. He had his own task to focus on. He squared his shoulders and turned to face their men once again. He may be better at interrogation, at book learning and gathering knowledge. He may be fighting bitterness and guilt by doing so now, but he still knew how to fight if need be, and he could lead the men just as well.

“Okay, you know what you're doing, you have five minutes to get into position,” he ordered, voice hard, and stood still as he watched the men and women disperse, the teams going the furthest at a near silent run, picking up their bags of equipment on the way. He followed behind the last team, the one creating the edge of the circle closest to their current position, trying to decide on a signal that would be obvious yet safe for his men and himself. 

Dean would, no doubt, have simply thrown a rock at the being's head, brutal and unsubtle. Sam tended towards a less obvious approach. Sadly, it was unreasonable to assume that he could simply walk up to him, potential-croats or not, and try to engage him in conversation. The short parade of angels they had known had proved to them over the years that they were violent, cunning, cruel and selfish, among other unpleasant traits. They would be more likely to snap Sam's neck at the merest hint of his approach, than find out the reasons behind it. And none of that even took into account the pile of corpses and the dead angel still at the being's feet.

Sam hummed as he settled on an option. Something to gain its attention, something slightly hypnotic, the men were well trained enough to know not to watch, and to do their duty. They knew what was on the line. Hopefully, no one would tell Dean that it was he who flaunted his 'no magic' rule.

-

Sam made his way to stand, hidden, between two points of the circle. That way, if he was injured, the circle, which he could not allow to be broken, would stand a higher chance of remaining intact. He huffed out a grateful sigh for the brands that they all had, hiding them from the angel’s mojo, unless they were in its line of sight.

He tried and failed to pinpoint any of the team members, which proved their proficiency, and all their other charms and spells, but made his task harder. He didn't know whether they were in position yet. He knew they should be standing in a large circle, hidden by buildings and overgrown shrubbery. They had had enough time, and he couldn’t risk the ringleader finishing his task and disappearing. They had already lingered too long. 

He whispered a few words into his balled fist, holding a crushed selection of herbs and a few other items hastily pulled from his permanently stocked bag. He mused as he took a couple of paces backward, hoping the hours being taught cricket by an over enthusiastic Brit in the camp would finally prove themselves useful as he pulled his arm backward to make an overarm throw.

Aided by the magic he had imbued into the concoction, the softly glowing ball of golden light sailed far further than a simple running throw should manage, but it flew true, hitting the apex of it's arc, and slowly descending directly over the angel's head. 

The men, women and children making up the being's audience, and facing Sam's direction, noticed it first. For the first time they moved, becoming restless. They shifted their attention from the dark haired man, who had been standing still and silent, and pointed to the ball, drifting slowly down, craning their necks to see it. Sam swallowed as the man noticed their distraction, and twisted his neck up and around, almost unnaturally, to look himself, until he too was staring at the globe.

Sam knew something wasn't right. He felt the fear plunge in his gut as the darkening, angry face of the creature levelled it's gaze directly at him, hidden or not.

The circle wasn't complete.

His team hadn't been ready.

The being pivoted and lurched toward his position. Sam's mouth went dry, his fingers, sweaty, clutching at his gun.

A roar. A wash of heat and orange-blue color filling his vision, and Sam slumped in relief, loosening his grip.

The rope that lay at his feet, soaked well with Holy Oil and stretched between two of the team members, burst into life, stinking flame reaching almost as high as his knees.

The creature contorted, his face screwing up into something ugly, before he let loose a frustrated scream. 

It  _was_ an angel. And, it was trapped.

The angry noise wrenched from its throat didn't last long. He spun on his heel and pointed at the men and women, whose attention snapped right back to him. Without a moment's hesitation, the angel was speaking, still too quietly to hear, and pointing; the people were moving.

Sam ran the moment that he saw they had been ordered forward, toward the edge of the circle. Dean had been right. They were croats, or at least under the influence of the angel, and they were going to break the circle. There was nothing he could do, the circle was enormous, and he had to stay outside of it, the croats were running away from his location, the uneven circle's boundary closest to them at that point.

“Fuck,” he huffed as he sprinted, knowing that he was too far away to take a shot, let alone the necessary head shot that would actually kill the beasts, if they were indeed croats. They were practically indestructible unless you took out the brain, a fact that, were the source of the virus not known, would have garnered the nickname 'zombie' within day of their appearance. But, croats they were, croats who were being ordered to jump on the line of Holy Fire, breaking the circle and allowing the eerily calm angel to escape. He sprinted past one of the team, the man still replacing his matches in his pack, that's how fast things had moved. The hunter fell into step behind Sam within moments, his feet pounding on the hard packed earth. 

The rhythm of their boots on the ground stuttered as the sharp report of a rifle filled the air, followed by another and another in quick succession. He continued running until be broke cover, flying onto the open ground of the road Dean's party first approached from. He was still too far to bother making a shot himself, but the man who had followed him from his position knelt bringing a gun to his shoulder anyway. The reports kept coming as the guns were fired though, the ones within range, taking out the small group of obedient croats, felling them just short of the line. 

Panting, Sam watched the angel glare calculatingly at the hidden snipers. The angel himself couldn't do anything to break the circle, he could move the corpses, throw them, but the properties of the Holy Oil itself would prevent his intervention, not to mention the spelled rope that held the oil. Rope that meant the circle could be maintained across a gap of buildings in the air, or spanning uneven terrain. The rope had been Dean's idea, the spells, Sam's.

The angel hissed in fury, inarticulate. He leaned down and, with no effort, lifted the angel's corpse at his feet, flinging it toward the line of flame. 

Sparks spat and embers flew up into the sky, a feeling of pressure filled the air momentarily, before the now smoking corpse rebounded into the circle's interior, landing with a dull thud on the asphalt. Sam swallowed hard at the sudden stench of burning flesh as the corpse's clothes ignited and blackened the skin.

The angel growled impotently, sneering at the corpse, then began laughing. A sour, cackling noise rose up from his throat, unnatural and unused. It made Sam feel nauseous to even hear.

“Really?” the angel asked, voice smooth and cracking at the same time, as if something was fighting against the vocal chords it was using. Sam reflected, that was probably the case if his vessel was still alive. 

Angel versus vessel. He scowled, thinking that the angel would always win.

“You trap me? An archangel?” the creature asked as he advanced, blue eyes glinting, livid.

Sam felt his gut sink to somewhere near his knees. An archangel? He had been entertaining a hope that this may be one of the few angels they had already come across, vapid and disinterested as they had been, at least he may have had some history with them, but an archangel? They only knew of two. Michael was dead, Lucifer walked the earth. If there had ever been others, he and Dean had believed them dead, gone. Every other angel had been a lower choir, far less powerful, still terrifying. The angel who had saved their grandfather from hell, Bartholomew, had been cruel and capricious, had sent their father on fool's missions, every single time obeying his instructions, intent on bringing on the apocalypse, despite Henry's defiance. Bartholomew had been a Seraph, and unbeatable by their standards. He was still out there as far as they knew, having disappeared when Lucifer was brought back to Earth, his job done. An archangel was way beyond Sam's pay grade.

He pulled in a deep breath to steady himself, and continued his walk around the flaming circle. As he neared the archangel, he could see his features clearly, a grim smile contorting what may have been a handsome face. Each member of his team fell into step behind him as he passed them, the men and women on the other side of the circle grouped amongst the semi-ruined buildings. He kept his eyes on the angel, who's glare finally stopped roving and focused on him.

Finally, Sam came to a stop, arms folded across his chest and glared at the impotent archangel, now only mere yards apart.

“Who are you?” he asked as commandingly as he could, biting down on the fear he felt at the power of his adversary. 

The angel's expression hardened as his eyes met Sam's, dark, and annoyed. The vessel was tall, although nowhere near as tall as Sam. He had dark scruffy hair, five o'clock shadow, and a strong physique under casual clothes. The angel within narrowed his eyes as he stalked toward Sam.

“Who _are_ you?”  he reiterated, narrowing his eyes in return, pulling himself up to his full six foot four height. 

The angel sneered. “You think you can hold me in this…” The angel trailed off as he threw another glance around him. “This circle is too large, the magic weak. It will not hold me long.” The angel stood directly in front of Sam now. He could see his vessel's eyes, blue and cold, calculating as they darted from Sam, to the faces of his team, the routes out, away.

“I am Raphael,” he finally announced, his voice ringing loud and sure, proud. But once more, Sam couldn't help but sense something off, as if the angel was at odds with itself.

Sam inclined his head, acknowledging the angel's assured reply. He had not reacted when Raphael had said the Circle was weak. It was something he had Dean had discussed, considered, but ultimately decided there was nothing to be done about it, beyond the spell work on the ropes. Sam had spent months on that particular project, taking teams and doing runs into hot zones to ransack hunter’s libraries and stashes. If the rope's magic held, he could, maybe, strike off another layer of the guilt he felt for not pushing his father to allow him to go and train with their grandfather in the Men Of Letter's bunker while he had the chance. If he had insisted to John, then maybe they wouldn't have lost not only all the Men Of Letters themselves, but their knowledge and the location to their Bunker and all the books held within. 

“You pathetic mud monkeys killed my pets,” Raphael hissed at Sam, mouth wide and angry, broad lips white and taut. 

“We killed the people that you ordered to sacrifice themselves to assist your escape, yes,” Sam agreed matter of factly, before continuing. “Tell me what you are doing here,” he ordered, squaring his shoulders once again. 

The terrifyingly powerful being just laughed in his face, saliva flying from his mouth. “Tell a mud—” He paused, shifting closer, as close as he could without destroying himself in the wall of flame. “You are a vessel,” he said, intrigued, his eyes lighting up, glee and fury mixing, battling for predominance in his expression. 

“I—” Sam began but was interrupted by Raphael's voice again, gruff and sinuous, “ _His_ vessel.” Anger and awe.

“Does my fallen brother know all about you? How you still walk the Earth so brazenly? Hmm? Although—” and he shrugged, the bones moving jerkily under the vessel's skin, “he does have his chosen one, all wrapped up tight about him. So, maybe he knows, and just doesn't care. How does that make you feel? Lucifer's unwanted vessel?”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. He knew he and Dean were vessels. How could they not know? But— Lucifer’s? Refusing to let his inner thoughts show, Sam shut his face down, feigning calm.“It feels fantastic, Raphael, because I'm free to fight the evil son of a bitch.”

Sam watched as Raphael's features contorted, his eyes rolling back in his skull, his mouth pulling wide, until a wheezing laugh escaped the archangel. His head thrown back, belly rippling with the peels of breathy cackles. “Well, Lucifer's angry unwanted vessel, I must leave you now. My pets, they were only an experiment. Despite their untimely deaths, I have the knowledge I need.”

He grinned, another almost spasmodic movement within the vessel, and he raised his hands. 

Sam swore. The ground began to shake, the buildings across the intersection of the wide road, where the rest of his men still stood, partly hidden, began to shift and quake. “Stop!” he yelled, knowing it would be pointless. An archangel's power was beyond anything they even vaguely knew how to fight. 

The angel sneered as the ground gave one final twitch, sending a broken wall crashing down, ejecting a screaming, bleeding hunter who stumbled directly into the burning wall of Holy Oil. 

Horror froze Sam as he watched the twitching, writhing body impaled on a tongue of flame, unable to pull himself free.

He watched as the burning circle was broken.

He watched as the rest of the man's team flew from their hiding places to try and save their comrade, too late.

He watched as one of them pulled a gun, and pressed it, with compassion, to the man's forehead and stopped the screams.

He watched as the archangel wheezed another laugh, glassy eyes pulled wide, and made to zap himself from the scene.

He watched with joint surprise, fascination, and nausea, as the vessel's eyes widened even further, saw the angel throw the body he wore, a lurching, abortive movement upward, and failed to disappear.

He watched with rising wonder as the angel's body remained stationary, bound to Earth, unable to move, to fly. The angel's borrowed face morphed into an expression of terror, eyes now impossibly wide, blood vessels bursting as he strained and pushed and finally—

Gave up.

Sam threw himself to the ground, eyes screwed shut against the blinding white light as the archangel threw himself, his true form, from the vessel. The stuff of his being, Grace, pure power and energy, flowing away, up. 

Sam could see the Grace escape upward, even through the skin of his closed eyelids, clearly able to escape the circle. The spelled rope had done just as he had hoped. It had held the angel, even without the burning Holy Oil, as long as it was contained within its vessel, still in its corporeal form.

Silence fell as the burning blue-white light of Raphael's Grace left, leaving in its wake only the harsh sounds of Sam's own breath rasping in his throat and the too-fast thump of his heart in his chest.

A dry cough, painful and gasping, broke the illusion that he was alone.

Sam dragged his eyes open, still fearful of seeing the angel's true form, burning and terrible. He had enough learning, had seen enough corpses, to know that his eyes would be left mere fluid running down his cheeks if he had set his eyes on it. Instead, his eyes showed him the world, just as before, little changed, only now, the red streaked after-images of a celestial being danced across his vision. 

He glared at the road's cold and dusty surface, blinking hard.

“Well. That was different,” stated a new voice, flat and tired sounding, deep and rough. Familiar.

He looked up and set eyes upon the vessel. 

He was alive.

Hunched over, coughing dust, blood where his eyes were meant to be, but  _alive_ .


	3. Chapter 3

Sam stared at the blood streaked face of the vessel, amazed that he was alive. Not only that, but clearly in control of his faculties. He had heard enough tales of vessels left drooling and all but comatose. That this man was even able to speak was astounding, that only his eyes were injured, improbable.

“I need— The bunker. Jimmy.” The vessel coughed, moving a hand up to wipe at his face.

“No!” Sam yelped, worried that if the man's eyes were salvageable, then he would harm himself by rubbing at them and make himself blind. “Medic!” he yelled, knowing someone would answer the call.

“Just keep your eyes closed. We'll get you to— Wait. You said _The Bunker_?”

The man huffed out an exasperated, even angry, sigh. “Yes! I need to get Jimmy. He's still there—”

Sam shook his head. The vessel wasn't making any sense, except that he was referring to some place called the bunker. Surely it wasn’t possible— Had they _finally_ found a clue? “Do you know where you are? Could you direct us there?”

The man swung his blind, bloody, and terrifyingly emotionless face toward Sam, making him suck in a breath at the lurid red and dust dried liquid clinging to his face.

In a dry tone, his eyes still fiercely shut, he reeled off a map reference, head tilted slightly to the side. “I need to get Jimmy out of there,” he rasped out, finishing with a hissed and desperate “now!”

Sam noted that the man's voice was still just as rough and deep as the angel had made it sound, but now it rolled naturally.

He nodded, scrabbling for a scrap of thick paper and a pencil from his bag, even though the possibly-blinded man couldn't see him as he still sat, eyes closed and head hung. As he wrote, Jackson, the medic from the nearest team, and one of their best, arrived. His voice accompanied the thump of his knees and pack hitting the ground. “What's your name soldier?” he asked in a no nonsense, but warm tone.

“Castiel,” the man answered slowly.

“Okay Castiel. We're going to get you bandaged up, then back to camp. It's quite a way, but I don't want to risk getting you cleaned up out here where there's a ton of dust and smoke in the air. Your eyes are intact though. So that's something.”

Both Sam and this Castiel heaved out a sigh at Jackson's assessment. Sam began dusting himself off as Castiel cooperated in allowing the medic to wrap clean strips of cloth around his head.

“I need to go and get Jimmy. I will not leave him, not now that I am free of Raphael. Take me where you want afterwards, I don't care—” He broke off briefly, sounding resigned. “So long as we're together,” Castiel croaked out, looking up towards Sam, mouth set and determined, despite being wrapped in bandages.

“I—” Sam started, beginning to tell the man that he would find his friend, but then re-thinking. He didn't know what had happened here, who this man was, or this Jimmy. Not only should he not send him back to camp without himself or Dean to escort him, but, he thought, if it had been him in that man's position and Bobby or Dean were the one kept somewhere—he wouldn’t let anyone do it for him.

“Okay,” he breathed, then louder, “okay. He good to travel?” Jackson finished tying off the bandage and nodded. “I reckon so, Winchester. As long as he doesn’t mind a God awful headache,” the medic said, then muttered something under his breath about horses not being a smooth ride for a broken head, that Sam only just caught.

Castiel grunted, before reiterating, “I'm going.”

He pushed himself to his feet, staggering slightly as his lack of vision affected his balance. Sam sighed, but found himself admiring the man's determination. “Fine. Take him to the horses will you, Jackson?” The medic nodded, and joined Castiel, leading him back to the bone piles where the horses stood.

Rather than follow immediately, Sam pushed himself to his knees, eyes fixed on the ground where Jackson had knelt. The rope was scorched, yes, but it was still intact. The magic had worked. They might even be able to reuse the lengths should it ever be needed again. His magic had worked. Pride swelled in his chest briefly, knowing that he had inched a little further toward forgiving himself.

He smiled a little grimly, and pushed himself to his feet, knocking the dust from his knees. He looked sadly over to where, across the circle, Raphael had managed to chase a living, breathing human onto the Holy Fire, breaking the circle, and extinguishing the man's life. The corpse still smoked, the surrounding hunters and fighters still too dazed by the angel's escape to pick up or even cover the body.

He shook his head. Another dead. And all because—

No. Now was not the time.

“Marcus! Alex!” He turned and yelled, snapping the two men to attention.

The second they were within range he started rattling off orders. Cover and collect the body, collect the spelled rope, search the area for the living, or failing that for supplies. He found others and ordered them to do another sweep, looking for croats, to ascertain whether the area was safe. He found another who had a map in their pack and found the location of the coordinates. Less than two hours ride away.

What felt like hours later, but was in reality no more than thirty minutes, he was splitting his force. Half to try and find Dean's team, to back them up against the demons that their sweeps found no trace of. The other half to follow him. To find _The Bunker._

“I hope to God it's the Men Of Letters'. We could really do with catching that break,” he whispered to himself as he mounted Ghost, Castiel clutching onto the Medic who sat the horse to his right. They nodded to each other and kicked their horses into a slow trot. _And where the fuck is Dean?_

-

Jimmy stared at the empty plate on the table. It had been there since lunch time the previous day. His guard, Amerial was getting more and more infrequent with bringing him meals. His stomach growled angrily.

He turned over on his bed, wilfully ignoring the empty one pushed against the wall on the other side of the room, cold and unused now, for weeks.

He missed Castiel, it felt like an ache in his gut, persistent, and only ever getting worse. He had given up going for walks around the Bunker days ago. Without Castiel, his imprisonment was hundreds, thousands of times more difficult to bear. He wondered, for tenth time in an hour, whether he would ever see his lover's face again. He sighed heavily, wondering if he would ever see sunlight again either. He missed the sound of rain, the heat of summer, the taste of well made coffee. He missed—

Everything.

Gray walls, artificial light, only two faces to see, one to talk to, canned food, bleak silence and a hard bed. That was his reality.

Such were the depths of his misery that he almost missed the distant noise, halfway between a clunk and a thump that came faintly from the depths of the vast underground warren that the Bunker was.

His ears pricked, though, picking up the sound in the almost always completely silent Bunker. Amerial never made a single sound, so silent was she that he and Castiel had hypothesised she wasn't actually guarding them, only flying in to deliver meals.

He sat up, angling his head to try and pick up another sound, frowning in irritation as the chains attached to his legs clanked and rattled loudly as they slid from the bed to the concrete floor. In the ringing silence after the spelled metal finished it's decent, Jimmy dared not move, willing his legs to remain completely still, straining his ears to pick up even the slightest sound.

There was nothing.

After five minutes, he gave up, letting out the breath he had been holding, slumping and willing away the tears that had started to build.

He fell back on the hard mattress, memories of warm flesh and even warmer smiles rising unbidden as he bit his lip, swallowing rapidly to force calm upon his closing throat. He would not cry.

He would, though, he thought, probably die alone here, of starvation and thirst, or isolation, before Raphael remembered his existence. “Cas,” he whimpered pathetically into the darkness as he curled back up, willing his best friend back to him.

The miserable silence ended abruptly as a screeching yell rang through the Bunker's empty corridors, reverberating down halls and around corners, through locked doors before meeting his ears, weedy and faint.

He sat bolt upright in surprise, the pooled tears running from his eyes before he could blink them away.

With grim determination, Jimmy heaved himself to his feet. The noise could be good, he thought, very very good. Or bad. Just— Bad.

With long experience, he bent and lifted as much of the long length of chain from the floor as he could and hobbled to the door. He walked with the gait of a man who's stride was limited by the dull metal links strung between both ankles.

He knew the Bunker was huge. Even given the range of the long chain he hefted up, throwing a few lengths of it around his neck for easier carrying, he knew there were miles of corridors he had never seen, acres of rooms that were locked away behind the final heavy door that stood between the portion of the underground place that did as his prison and the much larger area that was— He didn't know. He had been brought here unconscious, somewhere in the region of three years previously, and he had never been allowed to leave since.

Castiel had though. But, the angel that rode his body around never walked him through the Bunker itself, according to the other prisoner. He simply strode out of Jimmy's vision and flew away, reappearing in whatever location the archangel Raphael desired. Castiel rarely talked about the times he was being used as a vessel. Whether it was traumatic for him, or whether to spare Jimmy the stories of the outside world, Jimmy never asked. It was better that way.

He stumbled his way along the corridor, as quiet as the chain allowed. Which wasn't very, he had to admit to himself. But, the sounds of battle were stronger here, almost enough to convince him that the noise of a rattling chain would never be heard through the spell etched door.

Banging, swearing, inaudible words, and crashing, glass shattering. It all filtered through that final portal through which he couldn't pass. Couldn't even reach.

Slowly he inched up the corridor and faced the door, stopping with only one loop of chain remaining slung over his shoulders.

He eyed it a little fearfully, almost laughing at himself as he caught that cold trickle down his spine. It had been a long time since he had feared for himself. Castiel, yes, constantly, but himself? Not so much.

A piercing, gurgling scream had him stumbling backward, almost tripping over the heavy chain in shock.

A bright blue-white flash of light stabbed around the well fitted door, lighting up the gloomy corridor with a burning rectangle that hurt his eyes.

He blinked away that red-black strobe-like after vision with far more ease than he could forget that scream.

Amerial.

She must be gone.

Boots thudded, more words, quiet, nothing he could discern, a yell, the clatter of something metallic hitting a hard surface. The sickening thud of dead meat meeting the ground.

He cringed even further back.

He wouldn't be scared, worried, if only he could see, if only the door didn't block all but the most obvious of sounds.

A loud voice sounded, closer, a scrabbling at the door, the handle moved up and down—but nothing happened.

As if he and Castiel hadn't spent hours the first few months they were stuck here, doing their best to break through that damned barrier.

“Stand back!” he heard, muffled and unfamiliar. He couldn’t tell if it was aimed at him, or the people trying to get through from their side, but he stumbled back even further nevertheless, another even stronger blot of fear jarring him, that he should remember these people may not be—probably weren't—friendly.

He retreated around the bend, walking back slowly, a thought flitting through his mind, that now his guard was dead, he definitely would starve to death unless these people could break through the door that was sealed with far more than simply bolt and key.

More mumbling words, muffled thumps. With the door completely out of view, he had even less to go on, no connection to the intruders at all. He almost found himself praying again.

A blast of red light rebounding around him, almost alive, brought him back. He watched a moment, stuck fast, as it bounced, almost solid, like marsh gas or ball lightning.

Jimmy jumped as a screeching, inhuman noise followed by a crashing thunk smashed up against his inattention. He heard the door roll back on it's hinges and hit the tiled wall followed by—

“JIMMY?!”

Cas.

“CAS!” He yelled, a joy bubbling up inside of him that banished everything else. He forgot the others, the angels, the blasts of light and the chain hung heavily about his shoulders, his loneliness and imprisonment. He ran, looking for the face he knew so well, above anyone else's, the one he loved so completely. “Cas!” he yelled again, breathlessly, seeking him amongst the many stood crowding the doorway.

“Jimmy.” Castiel breathed out, a smile in his voice and—

And—

“What the fuck happened to you!” he all but screamed, suddenly rooted to the spot. “Are you okay? Can you see? You're not bli— Cas!” Not his Cas, he couldn't bear it if he was injured.

Castiel laughed a little, tired sounding and a little too high pitched, but he reached his arms out blindly. All Jimmy could look at was where the dirty bandages wrapped about his skull, his eyes completely obscured, blood soaked and angry red.

“I'm fine, Jim, I'm fine,” Cas croaked out.

Jimmy staggered forward, and finally reached him, after what felt like hours. He folded Castiel tightly into his arms, carefully maneuvering the other's head so that his eyes touched nothing but air. Cas' arms wrapped around his back, hugging him back just as urgently, their bodies pulled together from groin to chest. He desperately wanted to kiss him, hold him properly, show him how much he missed him, how glad he was that Cas was back in his arms, but he couldn't, not with an audience.

“Um, why _do_ we have an audience?” he whispered into Cas' shoulder, meeting the eyes of his probable-rescuers. Castiel huffed into his neck, pulling back and letting him go. They may not have had a usual upbringing for identical twins. They only met properly for the first time when they were placed in the Bunker, imprisoned together for the past few years. They recognized that their bodies looked the same, although all they saw of each other was the man inside, but they knew that the world at large wouldn't see what they saw.

“They somehow forced Raphael out of my body, Jim. I told them to come here and rescue you. Sam Winchester,” Jimmy looked over at the frowning crowd at the tallest of the group, who nodded, “agreed. He would like to look around the place before they take us back to their camp.”

Jimmy looked back to Winchester. “Hi, Jimmy isn't it? Nice to meet you,” the man said in a smooth and deep, but quiet voice. Not one he would peg as a fighter if he hadn't caught the glint in the man's eye. Jimmy nodded to Winchester, and the others in turn as they waved or inclined their heads. “Would you let me see about getting that chain off?” Sam asked, making Jimmy startle a little. In all the confusion he had forgotten about the heavy chain slung around his neck and linking his feet together, tethered to the staple buried in the dungeon floor.

He nodded again, before looking down at his feet and the heavy cuffs sitting against his raw rubbed ankles.

“Come on,” Cas murmured quietly to him, taking his wrist and leading him back to the dungeon that had done as their room, blindly running his fingers along corridors he literally knew well enough to navigate with his eyes shut. Jimmy listened as the others spread out through the corridors. He suddenly desperately wanted to join them, to be able to roam.

“I can be free?” he asked at the realization, his voice cracking a little as a metallic, electric taste filled his mouth at the desperate longing.

Castiel, having led them faultlessly to their room, felt for the edge of the bed and spun Jimmy around, pushing him down to take a seat. Jimmy felt a little dazed as Castiel lit up with a wide smile and knelt on the floor between Jimmy's knees. “Yes. They want us to go with them to their camp. Tell them everything we know. Sam said this place is some kind of family heirloom that they lost somehow. I don't really know, wasn't really listening.” Jimmy frowned, worried that Castiel was hurt. He _always_ listened to everything going on around him, absorbing facts and filing them away for later. Cas paused, a soft smile on his lips and cocked his face up to look blindly at Jimmy, “I was thinking of you.”

Jimmy suddenly missed the clear and lucid eyes that normally looked at him when he said such things, but even without them, this man was beautiful to him, more than beautiful. He leaned in and down, pressing his lips to his twin’s.

It was short-lived and chaste, but said everything it needed to. I missed you, I love you, I'm glad you're here with me once again.

The heavy thump of footsteps echoing down the hallway interrupted them, and Castiel, pulling a face, all annoyed and scrunched up, pulled himself to sit next to Jimmy on the bed, two feet apart and hands to themselves.

“Hey guys,” Sam announced, his shaggy hair swinging around his shoulders even after he had stopped walking.

“Hello Sam,” Castiel answered as Jim simply nodded at him, still feeling wrong-footed and shocked at the change in events.

“So… That's spelled chain. Or so one of the guys tells me—” He broke off, making eye contact with Jimmy, who nodded, kicking his feet out to show the heavily etched cuffs. “Okay, well, we didn't find a key on the angel, so we managed to dig out a plan of this place. We can do a simple location spell.” Jimmy raised his eyebrows in surprise. That was quick and efficient. “It does mean I need you to place your foot, with the keyhole on the cuff, on the map as we set it alight.” Jimmy tried to share his apprehension with Cas, only to find his look returned with a bandaged face and a snort of amusement. The man was no help what so ever.

“Fine.” He huffed out, sticking out his left foot. A few burns were a small price to pay to get out of here. That almost electrical taste covered his tongue again at the thought of freedom. Real true freedom. For the first time.

It didn't take long, the medic on hand to wrap his foot as Sam and the others went rushing off to find the key, hidden in the kitchen, with a whole heap of others, going by the collection they brought back with them. He felt like part of a corny joke, the blind leading the lame, as he and Castiel hobbled and lurched through the finally unrestricted areas of the Bunker, toward the front door, up stairs neither of them had really seen before. Jimmy hardly looked around, uninterested in these new surroundings, just desperate for fresh air and true daylight.

The cold, winter filled air was like water to a man dying of thirst. It was late afternoon, the sun setting weak and yellow, the stink of horses rising in clouds of steam from the animals' breath. It was the most beautiful scene he could remember. Real.

Tears sprang to his eyes.

Even the strange figures drifting in the distance were mere background noise to the men and women tending the horses, the glare of the sun, the touch of the breeze, the stink of horse shit, and the beauty of his lover's bandaged face.

“I haven't seen it yet,” Castiel's gruff voice stated, seeming to sense Jimmy's awe.

“You will, Cas. I promise you.” He squeezed Castiel's hand, hoping to God he wasn't lying.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam bit his lip in worry at the guard's negative answer. The man had neither seen, nor heard of reports about the elder Winchester, or any of his team, returning.

His whereabouts were unknown.

The ten men he had sent in as backup, plus the few Dean had had with him originally, should have been more than than enough to tackle a few demons. If there had been more, the scout would have warned them when he first arrived, or, if Dean had found out there were too many to fight, he would have fallen back. The man was a good leader, a good tactician—

Sam's scouts should have been able to find _something_ , when he had sent them out after saving Castiel. Even given the journey time, Dean should be here, or should have been picked up by one of their patrols, like they themselves were.

“Shit,” he whispered, but drew himself up, and plastered calm and confidence all over his face. He knew there was no possibility of showing weakness to the camp. There were too many people depending on them, _on him_ , to allow them to doubt. Doubt led to questions, and questions led to the whole damned system falling apart. It was easier to just get on and do what needed to be done. Not for the first time, he pitied Dean and the constant stress that his position as their leader put on him. No wonder the man was all hardness now.

He pulled Ghost up in the dimly lit yard, swinging a leg over her rump and dropping neatly to the floor. He watched as Jackson, the medic, helped Castiel from the horse, the man's lip curling in discomfort, whether from his head and eyes, or the long and unaccustomed hours spent on a horse, he couldn't tell. Another one of his men, Alex, was helping a dazed looking Jimmy from his mount, holding him up as his bandaged foot hit the frozen mud. “Jackson, get the twins to the hospital, please. Keep them there until we get a Council called, okay?”

Jackson nodded, gripping a hand around Castiel's upper arm. Jimmy hobbled over and wrapped an arm around Castiel's waist, hand settling gently on the small of his back. His other hand closed around Castiel’s, leading him and using him to support his injured foot as he limped forward. Sam frowned and shrugged, wondering what had caused their less than brotherly touches. He pulled a face as he thought back to times Dean had been hurt, and decided he was simply seeing two fraught men comforting themselves and each other in a difficult time.

He shook the thoughts from his head with a sigh as irrelevant. He needed to get together a fresh squad to send out in search of Dean, and to offer aid and backup if need be. That was the primary concern, as the fear that his brother was already dead churned in his gut. But, that too had to be ignored. He needed to call Ash, Ellen, Bobby and the others together to decide on a plan for this new information, about the archangel Raphael, about the strangely obedient croats, and not least, they all needed to debrief the twins.

All the while, his mind was bubbling over with the knowledge that they had finally found the Men Of Letter's Bunker. A repository of knowledge so vast, useful, and dangerous, that it had been only handed down within families after a long initiation. Sam’s guilt stemmed from the fact that, even after he came of age, he had allowed his father to keep him from Henry. Their grandfather had been a Man Of Letters, but due to John's disinterest and preference to hunt; his need to chase the thing that had killed their mother and grandmother had become the priority. But it wasn’t John's fault, John wouldn’t have argued, they had all thought that there would be more time. 

Until, that is, Henry gave his life for John's, making a deal that sent him to Hell. There, after years of torture, he broke, and took up the knife himself. A righteous man shed blood in Hell. He kick started the damned apocalypse.

Having the key to the place, firmly on his person, went just another small step toward righting that wrong he made years ago.

A clanging noise, dull and dead in the bleak dusk, made him drop his train of thought in an instant.

The warning bell.

Spinning on his heel, and sprinting back to the main gate, Sam came skidding to a halt amongst the milling men and women of the camp alerted by the bell.

“What happened?” He called up into the trees, trying to spot the guard amongst the evergreen canopy. 

“There's a squad come in Sir! Sent the runner to the canteen.”

Sam didn't bother answering. If there had been a runner, the squad must have been intercepted by another patrol, sending the boy, sprinting all out, to bring the news. It was unlikely the squad would be in sight yet. He marched back to the canteen, easily spotting the long legged youth, sweating and heaving over a huge mug of the small beer.

“Croats?” he asked first, knowing that the runners pushed themselves hard, but usually kept something in reserve in case the croats showed themselves. This kid looked done in. 

He just shook his head in response though, sucking in another huge breath. “No, Sir,” he huffed. “Lieutenant thought it was urgent. One horse lame. Walking. Couldn't find Dean's squad. No demons. Came home.”

His sentences were short, interspersed by hard breaths and long swigs of beer, but the meaning sent Sam's insides cold.

The team couldn't find Dean's group at all? He straightened from where he had been kneeling next to the runner and nodded at the him. “Thank you—” 

“Ty,” the boy said.

“Ty. You did well. Rest. Try to keep this quiet for now, okay?”

The boy nodded and Sam walked back out, his vision temporarily dazed from the transition from firelight to the blackness without. The latent fear of Dean's death tugged at him again but he shrugged it off once more, he couldn't afford to think such things.

He walked back to the main gates, knowing that he would find someone of use hanging around, waiting for the squad to return. 

“Ash?” He asked, recognising the terrible hair cut, even in the moonlit night.

Ash turned and saluted, before answering him in hushed tones; “Sam-the-man,” and a clap on the back, cheery, but tense.

“I know it's not your thing, but think you can round up a team? We need to send out a party to search for Dean.” He said the words quietly, not wanting the news that he was worried about his brother, that Dean was really missing, to spread around the camp. If it got out that Dean was missing, Sam didn't know what would happen.

Ash, for once quiet, caught on quickly and nodded, slipping off through the darkness.

Within fifteen minutes, Sam had waved through a small team from one of the rear gates, in an attempt to attract less attention. Although, he reflected, it wasn't as if the camp were unused to seeing teams head out in the middle of the night. He just hoped no one would notice Dean's absence until it was necessary. 

He slumped into a chair in the ex-lounge of Bobby's home. He cradled his head in his hands, trying vainly to plan their next move, desperately hoping that this wouldn't be the time Dean _didn't_ return at all.

-

Castiel tried not to wince as warm, salty water was doused over the bandages before they were carefully pried from his face, loosening dried blood and crusted material. Light assaulted him through his closed eyelids, making him smile a little grimly, as pain hit.

It took ten minutes of poking and prodding by a softly spoken woman for her to assess that his eyes were fine. Once he opened them, before he could even work out whether his vision was intact, the red haze was washed with more water. He was ordered to blink into an eye bath for what felt like hours. Again, before he could blink away the water and see Jimmy, he was handed more cloth to blot away the water.

He was beginning to lose his patience, fingers itching to push the woman away when finally, _finally,_ he was allowed to look up from the clean wad of cotton in his hand, the image clear and sharp, to meet Jimmy's eyes. 

“Finally,” he grumbled, but smiled at the man who grinned back at him. Tears welled in Jimmy’s eyes, clearly beyond pleased that it had simply been burst blood vessels, and not Cas’ eyes bubbling from his skull. 

He thanked the short and assured woman who had been patiently treating him, watching as she picked up the bloody rags and bustled through the door, blonde hair swinging about her shoulders.

He swung his gaze back to Jim, revelling in seeing his face, clear and perfect after so long.

Jimmy got up and, looking around, swiftly leaned forward, placing a kiss on each of Castiel's eyelids, making Cas huff out an amused, happy laugh.

“I'm glad you're okay,” Jimmy smiled at him.

“Me too,” Cas added wryly. He head a headache and his eyes felt bruised and raw, but the soft flickering candlelight in the room was calming. 

Finding it difficult to pull his eyes from his boyfriend, he nonetheless scanned their surroundings properly. A small room, one bed, a counter top with a basin and clean cloths lying next to it. A door, through which the woman’s back could be seen before she disappeared behind a further door, closing it softly behind herself. In between the two was a large room set up like a ward. And a final door at the end.

Wooden walls, wooden floor and wooden doors.

It was stifling.

Unlike Jimmy, he had at least seen places further afield than the inside of that Bunker over the past three years, even if he had had no interaction. His body had been ridden by an angel whenever it pleased, doing what it pleased, leaving him longing for true freedom, for the true autonomy of his own body. He couldn't imagine how Jimmy felt, cooped up and hidden away from everything for so long.

“Want to get out of here?” he asked, making Jimmy's face immediately light up at the prospect. 

“Yes, Cas, _please,_ ” he all but whined, the desperation to be outside, free, clear in his eyes. “But, Winchester told that medic to guard us. What about him?”

Cas smiled in response, and nodded his head in the direction of the door he had just been glaring at behind Jimmy. Castiel couldn't help an amused smile as Jimmy spun on the spot to see a chair propped by the door, the medic; head back, eyes closed, breathing deep and heavy.

“Let's go,” Cas whispered, moving forward quietly and slipping past the softly snoring man, keeping an eye on the second door, behind which, the woman had gone.

Outside it was almost pitch black, a humming generator in the distance was lighting a single lamp, weakly illuminating the yard that the medical building opened on to. It was quiet, and Castiel had no concept of what the time was any more, having spent most of the day either being ridden by an angel, or with his head wrapped in bandages, on and off horses. He looked to Jimmy, who shrugged and jerked his head, clearly as wide awake as Cas felt, to indicate they should walk around the back of the building, away from the single lamp.

Neither of them had any intention of stealing away in the night. These people didn't seem bad, and they were both more than well aware of croats. There was no need to escape, as long as they weren't in danger, especially in danger of ending up held captive again. No need to risk themselves.

They wove between the buildings, Jimmy struggling on his raw, burnt foot. They used the moonlight where they could, treading carefully where their path was in complete blackness. They held hands, revelling in the ability to do so where cold, fresh, clean air touched their faces and clouded their breath. They kissed sweetly in the shadow of buildings, smiling into each other's mouths, too happy being free to be thinking of anything more, simply grinning at each other, sharing their joy. They held each other tightly against the cold forcing shivers up their spines.

“What's that?” Jimmy asked in a hushed whisper as they picked their way over a wood pile. Cas looked up to see Jimmy pointing across a wide clearing at a white painted sigil. It was bright and obvious in the moonlight, daubed on a tree trunk, almost glowing.

Castiel frowned, it wasn't familiar to him, despite all the knowledge he had gleaned from Raphael while he inhabited his body. “Take a look?” he queried, itching to walk amongst the trees in any case, to leave the huts and cabins behind.

Jimmy nodded and walked forward, stumbling every now and then on the solidly frozen earth and tall grass, wincing as his bad foot took his weight. Castiel caught him every time, and Jimmy returned the favour when, he too, tripped.

It didn't take them as long to cross the field as they had expected, the cold moonlight distorting their depth perception. They stopped just short of the tree line, inspecting the complex image. “What do you think it's for?” Castiel asked Jimmy, who simply shook his head and ran his fingertips over the paint. 

“Feels warm,” was his only reply.

Cas shrugged, giving the white sigil a final glance before stepping past the tree into the dark cover beyond. 

He came to an abrupt halt, his eyes darting between the gnarled tree trunks.

They weren't alone.

Not any more.

Between the trees, drifting and hanging suspended on nothing, were ethereal, ghost-like creatures. In their hundreds.

“What the—” he whispered, unable to continue, staring wide eyed at the press of— Ghosts? 

He shook his head, ignoring Jimmy's annoyed noise that he wasn't moving. He had seen ghosts, albeit, through the eyes of Raphael in his body, but these, although they had similarities, were nothing alike.

They floated there, drifting, aimless. They were humanoid, in that they were taller than they were wide and had a head-like shape at the top. Castiel had no experience of children, other than his own short youth, but the translucent beings looked very much like his first attempts at drawing people. Blobby, ill-formed, inconsistent. They were whitish, almost as if they were filled with smoke, and where they grouped, they became almost opaque. 

“Cas?” Jimmy's irritated question finally broke through to him, but he couldn't answer, only step a little further in, allowing Jimmy to follow.

Cas dragged his eyes away to look at his boyfriend's face as Jimmy stepped over the invisible threshold too. Fear mingled with disbelief as his eyebrows shot up and his eyes clearly tracked another of the creatures as it drifted.

“What are they?” Jimmy found the ability to ask after five silent, tense minutes of being completely ignored by the things.

Castiel shrugged, gaze fixed on one that was floating toward them. “Look,” he whispered, pointing to it as it came to a gentle halt within arm's reach. Jimmy hummed in question, looking in the general direction, but straight past the creature bobbing next to a tree. “You can't see it?” Cas asked, hearing the confusion, clear in his own voice. 

“I— I can see specter type things, Cas, but there's nothing there. Not where you're pointing,” Jimmy replied, turning his head to fix Cas with a stare. 

“Are we— Are we seeing different… specters?” he asked, almost affronted, turning his head back to look at the thing, disinterestedly hanging there. He threw a quick look to Jimmy before taking the few short strides toward the specter. It didn't even acknowledge him, as he got within feet, then inches. “I don't know what these are, Jimmy, but I think they may be harmless.”

Jimmy nodded, taking his own limping steps deeper into the tree cover, the moon completely obliterated by the heavy canopy, only the gray light that the specters seemed to emit lighting his way. “Come on, Cas, let's explore a little more.”

Castiel tore his eyes away from the blank head of the motionless specter, and smiled at Jimmy's attitude. Years spent imprisoned, and after a few hours he was in control enough to wander between unknown supernatural creatures. He shook his head in awe of the man he loved, and jogged to catch him up. They walked in silence, side by side, weaving between the tree trunks, and stepping through piles of pine needles and fallen leaves. 

“Cas! No!” Jimmy suddenly exclaimed, horror in his whispered shout.

Cas stopped short, overbalancing a little on the spongy surface. He found Jimmy's hand wrapped around his own, pulling him back, stopping him from falling.

When Cas raised his eyes from the ground, sure of his footing once again, he gasped.

He was mere inches from walking through a specter that had not been there moments before.

“Wha—” Jimmy uttered, frozen, and dropped his hand.

The specter disappeared. 

“That—” Castiel, slowly, uncertain, reached out to Jimmy again, unseeing, and fumbling, he managed to hold the man's hand, entwining their fingers tightly.

The specter appeared, this time turning silently and beginning to drift away, entirely unaware of Castiel, and their near miss.

“So wha—” Jimmy began, watching the specter drift off, his fingers automatically clenching in Cas' hand. “We can see different ones unless we touch?” 

Castiel just nodded silently, too bemused to respond.

Jimmy began his limping walk again, keeping a firm grip on Castiel's hand. “How come we've never seen them before? Unless...” He tailed off briefly, looked intently at the ground before continuing. “I doubt they just live here—” His voice had an edge Castiel had never heard before. “And, what happens if we walk into one? One that we can't see?”

Castiel simply shook his head, unable to come up with the answers, but smiling a little at his boyfriend's questioning. Twins they may technically be, but having grown up in, not just strange circumstances, but entirely separately, meant that their personalities were very different. It always left him feeling satisfied, that if nothing else, if every aspect of their lives were analysed, including their unconventional relationship, it would be obvious; he would still  _like_ this man and all his idiosyncrasies.

“Jimmy,” he began, stopping in a small clearing. “Can we—” He didn't even need to finish his sentence.

Jimmy knew he was more introspective, that he needed time to think, to process. The other man inclined his head in half agreement. “You can. This is the first time— I need to move Cas, I've been cooped up far too long.” 

Castiel smiled his agreement, pulling his boyfriend in for a brief kiss wrapping his arms around him, before letting him go. They smiled at each other, forgetting for a moment the strange specters that surrounded them. Castiel watched as Jimmy turned and began picking his way through the trees, using the trunks as a crutch when needed. He chose the most difficult route, probably weaving between specters that were invisible to Cas’ eyes.

Castiel's smile fell as he turned and found a fallen branch to perch on. Jimmy and he had been imprisoned together for about three years in the Bunker, not their first prison, but the most restrictive. Jimmy had had it so much worse though. With his angelic puppeteer gone, only Castiel was able to leave, albeit used by an angel to do so. Although he had no autonomy, he, at least, got to see sunshine and people, rain and rolling hills. Jimmy had had the run of a small portion of an underground secret society's hideout. No wonder the man needed to stretch his legs, feel the freezing air on his face.

Castiel found being outside without an angel riding his bones felt completely different, almost raw. It left him needing stillness. He wanted to sit and absorb the night, the freedom. Not to mention watch the ghost-like specters drifting between the trees. He needed time to just _be._

He sat there long minutes, long enough for Jimmy's crunching footsteps to fade into silence, long enough for the moon to rise above the canopy and filter directly down onto him, long enough to notice the specters begin to rouse, to gather, to move and—watch. 

And wait.


	5. Chapter 5

It could be said that Dean Winchester was not happy.

“No fucking shit,” he hissed under his breath, weaving a path through the thick trees in that part of the compound.

He had waved off the guard's suggestion that he call for a medic, or for his brother, not wanting to rouse the entire camp in the middle of the night, just because he made it back alive. Not when so many others didn't.

He hated this part. He could cope with the fact that half his leg was a bloody mess again, his jeans ruined, that his horse was still dripping blood from the gash in his side, but telling the partners and kids of those he was meant to protect that he had allowed them to get killed? That they had become demon-chow? At least they were dead, he supposed, not being ridden around by the hellspawn, a mockery of who they had once been.

The scout's warning that demons were approaching—well, it had been accurate at the time, only four or five of them according to the man’s report. But shortly after he and Dean had met up with the rest of the group, the demons had gone from those few, to about thirty. The demons were easily equal to Dean’s entire party, let alone just their small team, and full of super-powered, demon juice too.

He scowled. He was dropping with exhaustion, saddle sore, hungry, thirsty. He was angry at himself, and his damn fool team for rushing in, when they should have just turned tail and ran. Hal would never get another chance to be rash again. “I'm sorry boys,” he choked out into the frost laden air, biting back the tears. Tears of anger and remorse.

He was leading Falcon by the reins, the beast completely exhausted, having trotted half the way back, then walked behind Dean for the remainder of the journey. He had a knife wound in his side, not too deep, but bad enough to have drained too much blood from him. Dean raised his eyes up to the canopy, asking for rain, to wash away the dual blood trail they had left.

Blood attracted croats, and that was the last thing they needed. They hadn't had an attack on the compound in months.

He stepped awkwardly, breaking through the thick, tough layer of frost with a crack and slipping on the spongy layer of rotting leaves underneath.

He sank down a few inches, causing him to throw out his free arm to catch himself. He muttered a curse at his own inattention, however legitimate the cause on the treacherous track.

Dean returned his gaze right back to the hidden path, illuminated by the moonlight filtering in from the clearing just up ahead.

Where, sitting bolt upright on a branch he had cut and dragged there himself two summers ago, was the angel.

Dean dropped the reins, reaching for his knife. He knew he couldn't hurt it, knew he would probably be dead in seconds, but he couldn't go down without trying.

He lunged forward, finding enough traction to move fast and cover the distance.

It was enough to surprise the angel into standing and stepping back, a wild eyed expression on his white blanched face.

“How in Hell did you get in here?” he growled. They may be outside the most protective layer of warding in the woods, but they weren't fools in Camp Salvage. The very ground the exterior fence sat in was filled with sigils and warding, let alone the fence, and a half dozen trees dotting the paths in and out for half a mile in every direction. Sam wasn't head of research and knowledge for nothing.

The angel raised its hands in a supplicating gesture. His angular features were stark in the moonlight, eyes completely hooded and ominous, which nonetheless showed the confused frown cutting the man's forehead as he tilted his head to the side, almost in question.

He stalked toward the angel, knife raised his his fist, expecting to be torn apart any moment.

“Shit—” he hissed as a realization dawned, filling his gut with misery and adrenaline, and pure, fiery wrath.

“Did you kill Sam? Is that why you're in the camp? You can't want all of us. We're not helpless, we'll rip you apart.” He spat out the words as if they were poison, needing to get close, to tear into the angel, to hurt it, to make it pay.

But he held back, not only was the angel the most powerful of creatures on this planet, but the poor bastard that it was riding could well still be alive. He was many things, but he didn't take killing innocents lightly.

“No— I— I'm not—” The voice was low, gravelly, but strained, fearful. It gave Dean a moment's pause, but he leapt forward anyway, raising his arm to punch the angel, hopefully knock its sense from it for long enough to bind it somehow. He cursed his ineptitude, for thinking he was safe within the boundaries of the camp, for leaving his weaponry on Falcon.

He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

He probably wouldn't have the chance, he thought, as he began his swing.

Abstractly, he heard the sharp thwack sound, even as he felt himself begin to crumple.

He was aware of his descent to the ground, the unintended yelp of pain that his body had yet to feel, as something solid connected with his skull.

But, there was no pain, no sound of his heart beating, no fear. Just clouding blackness as his head hit the soft ground, his vision taking a moment to catch up with his body. The last thing he saw as the blackness truly took hold, was a ratty sneaker kicking the knife out of his clenched fist.

-

Castiel frowned at the specters as they gathered. If it weren't so totally silent in the wood, he could almost imagine them chittering to themselves excitedly. Their movements were no longer apathetic and meaningless, they moved with intent, pushing up against the trees on the other side of the clearing, pushing up against each other, away from Cas, away from the direction Jimmy had gone— All, although they had no faces, turned to look away from Cas, into the dark woods where they crushed forward.

Castiel didn't dare move, watching the creatures intently, over the rise of the land, he could make out more and more of the creatures, all gathered, flowing forward, parting slowly, leaving a path—

He heard a crack and a crunch and a hissed swearword— Not Jimmy. Castiel’s heart started thumping wildly in his chest as he continued to stare, fingers curled tightly in the fabric of his pants.

Through the corridor of milky white specters he saw the heavily shadowed form of a man and horse, their approach silenced by the deadening effect of the trees and fallen leaves. They were surrounded by the specters, the ghost-like things pushed up close to him, jostling with each other, but moving out of the man's path at the last second, ducking reverently out of his way.

Castiel was mesmerised.

Until, that is, the man noticed him.

He lunged forward, flitting from blackness to moonlight so fast that Castiel stumbled upright and stepped back, hitting his heels on the branch he had been sitting on.

“How in Hell did you get in here?” the man demanded, all aggression and fury. Castiel wasn’t sure how to respond. Who even was this man? Should he explain to him about Raphael? About the Bunker? About Sam bringing them here?

He watched as the man staggered forward again, and he raised his hands, trying to appease him, to calm him down, to prove he was defenceless. All the while, he tried to follow the movements of the specters, still flowing up and around the man, silently drifting from his way, always just fast enough to avoid touching him.

“Shit,” the man swore, his head ducking, before rearing back up with his mouth pulled wide in anger. “Did you kill Sam? Is that why you're in the camp? You can't want all of us. We're not helpless, we'll rip you apart.”

Castiel jerked his head back in surprise at the man's words, the pure hate and venom evident in his voice. The hurt and pain too.

He had no idea what the man meant, what he intended. He seemed deranged. “No— I— I'm not—”

Castiel broke off half a second before the indistinct shape of Jimmy rose from the darkness, the silhouette of a sturdy branch clearly held in his hands. Castiel was frozen as Jimmy swung the lump of wood and cracked the man square on the side of the head.

He felt as if he was watching in slow motion as the man's eyes rolled back, his face slackened, and he hit the ground with a dull thump.

Jimmy stepped forward and kicked the knife from the man's hand, chucking the branch to the side.

“Well—” his boyfriend started dazedly, as he looked about himself at the distressed specters.

Castiel, thrown by his boyfriend's abrupt reappearance and helpful violence, collapsed back onto the log.

Jimmy was instantly by his side, an arm wrapped around his waist. “Are you okay? I'm sorry I was gone so long, he didn't hurt you did he?”

Cas shook his head, “No, no I'm fine. He just took me a little by surprise. I think we— _I_ , scared him more than anything.”

He looked down at the prone man, clearly visible in the moonlight and spectral glow. “I think he's injured,” he voiced aloud, seeing the dark smear along the man's thigh, his bloody hands.

Jimmy stopped fussing over Cas and focused on the man. “We should probably get him back to the camp, let them decide what to do with him.” Cas looked up at Jimmy's flat angry voice.

“Oh. No. He _is_ part of the camp, not an intruder—like we are, or at least that's what he seemed to think.” He felt a need to defend the man's actions against Jimmy's anger. “He thought I might have killed Sam?” He made it a question, wondering why he would have thought that.

Jimmy hummed thoughtfully, before giving Cas another quick once over, seemingly to check he hadn't acquired an injury in the few seconds it took him to respond. Satisfied, Jim pushed himself up and limped off between the trees, dodging the swelling numbers of specters gathering in the clearing.

Castiel stood, and took the three paces to the man's body where he lay on the ground. He crouched down and checked for a pulse, scowling at himself for only just having thought of it. He was worried that Jimmy had done some permanent damage, but the heart beat was sure and strong, although the man's brow was clammy with sweat and his leg was still oozing blood through a hastily made bandage of ripped fabric.

“Looks like you need our help,” he murmured, and placed both his hands under the man's armpits, hoisting his dead weight into a semblance of a kneeling position as Jimmy reappeared, leading the gray horse toward them, lit eerily by the specters’ inner glow.

Between them, they managed to hoist the man over the saddle, belly down. The horse whinnied a protest, and Castiel discovered the animal's own wound. Cas grunted an apology to the beast, patting his side gently, trying to comfort the hurt animal.

“Come on,” Jimmy's muffled voice came from the other side of the horse, where he had a hand on the rein. Castiel maintained a hold on the man's shoulders, preventing him from sliding from the horse's back as they began a slow walk back the way they had come.

“Did you see them?” Jimmy asked after a few moments, just the sound of the horse's hooves and their breaths in the night air. His words were indistinct, but his meaning crystal clear to Castiel.

Cas shuddered a little. “I did,” he replied, looking up and behind them at the long line of specters flowing through the trees, trying to catch up with the unconscious man. “I do.”

A pause, then, “What do you think it means? They like him? They didn't crowd around us. I followed them. They were all flowing back. To you, well, to him. They're why I came back.”

Castiel shrugged thoughtfully, even though the movement was invisible to Jimmy on the other side of the horse. “Let's just get back to their camp.”

They both shivered as they walked past the tree with the sigil.

Castiel threw a look over his shoulder, curiosity burning. He could no longer make them out, the sigil clearly warding against the specters. But, he could imagine them; gathered in such numbers, crowding against that invisible line. The air would appear to be suffused with localised mist.

He tightened his grip on the man's shoulder, shaking off the thought, wondering just who, or maybe _what_ , he was.

-

Castiel was scowling as the sun rose beyond the small, cracked window of the side room they had been in earlier that night. The watery pink-gold light steadily stretched across the bed he had been sitting on when the women, Bess, had removed his bandages, and where Dean Winchester now slept.

He kept his eyes glued to the man, trying his best to come to a conclusion about the so-called leader of Camp Salvage. He didn't know what to make of him, nor the lessening of the tension in his own shoulders as Bess had declared the man just sleeping, heavily, but completely natural. He found himself having to bite down on the twitch of his lips into a smile as Dean gave a rasping snore, disrupting the peace and lifting in counterpoint to Jimmy's where he sat in the chair across the room.

It had taken hours. Hours of yelling and argument, of accusation and interrogation before Sam Winchester had allowed the two of them to watch over the man they had first startled, then injured. The man who seemed to fascinate the strange specters so much.

By silent agreement, he and Jimmy had known not to bring them up with Sam. Not while the man had been so furious. Firstly, that they had left, and then believing that they had hurt his brother purposefully. Jimmy had been placating, explaining calmly and slowly, exactly what had happened, Castiel backing him up with his own terse account where needed.

The moment they had lead the limping horse into the camp proper, they realized they had been missed. A shout had gone up almost immediately, and within seconds they had been surrounded, knives held to their throats as Sam had flown through the crowd, shooting them only a dark glance before pulling Dean from the horse.

Sam had clearly been terrified before he’d pressed his fingers to a pulse point and slumped in relief. Bess had arrived, looking tired, and told Sam that Dean should be fine, the bump on the head probably more of a benefit as he would actually sleep for once. They had exchanged knowing looks in front of Cas and Jimmy, which had been all too easy to read.

Sam had sent two large men to take Dean to 'Medical' before turning on Castiel and Jim.

They had been dragged into a building that looked to be the only proper house in the camp, and ordered to sit. Within moments they were surrounded by the camp's council members, where Jimmy had done his explaining. Castiel had, between his additions to Jimmy's tale, watched the council. Slowly, as the story, carefully devoid of any mention of specters, unfolded, Cas saw the expressions relax, the shoulders lower, the hostility lessen.

Only Sam's face had remained screwed up in complete distrust. He had only allowed them back into Medical because he didn't know where else to put them. Jim and Cas had both let out a sigh of relief. It wasn't only the guilt calling them to watch over the man. They both desperately wanted to find out what it was that called to the specters, if there was anything there that might give them a clue. _Who was he?_

Cas and Jimmy had not been left alone though. He turned slightly to eye the guard who stood at the door to the ward, fresh, alert, and watchful.

Castiel glared a little, cursing him in silence. That wide awake, well armed, muscular man had meant that he and Jim had not had a chance to discuss the specters, Dean, nor anything else, let alone catch up… _properly_.

Castiel returned his gaze to the sleeping man, and his silent contemplation of all the extra-supernatural goings on in his life since the previous day.

Having an angel expelled from your body was—interesting. He snorted quietly at the thought, at how impossible it was to explain _that_ sensation. Like sneezing backwards, and being doused in hot water simultaneously. Only twice as unpleasant. The relief afterwards, better than anything he could remember. 

He stared, almost unseeing a moment, trying to discern what made _this_ man different, why did those mysterious specters follow _him._ Or was it Jimmy and himself who were different? Uninteresting to the specters.

His eyes glazed over as he thought, mind wandering, the sun creeping across the room as dawn broke properly, accompanied by birds singing, and the sounds of people rising. The sun felt warm where the now golden light hit his skin.

Castiel was practically in a meditative state, he realized, when a thought popped into his head. Staring at Dean Winchester's slack face was hardly an onerous task, even without finding a single answer to all his questions. The light snoring aside, _the man was attractive_.

That thought had Cas on his feet, pacing the tiny room.

He looked at Jimmy, his partner, and felt guilt surge up inside of him at the unusual and unwanted thought.

But, looking back at Dean, the realization wouldn't leave. The more he looked, the more magnetic he appeared. His light brown hair, almost glowing in the morning sun. His skin, tanned and weathered. Laughter lines, long lashes, and freckles spattered across his nose and cheeks. His open, drooling mouth, pink and full.

He cursed and spun away in agitation, looking once more upon Jimmy, the man he loved. Sweet, clever, observant, always so positive, supportive, strong and perfect.

He smiled sadly as he looked upon his facsimile. He did love this man, he was beautiful to him, but he had to admit it was a relationship of personality rather than looks. Their unique experiences had forced them to 'get over' the particular hurdle of sleeping with someone who's body mirrored their own. But, turning back to Dean, eyes rolling as he dreamed, Castiel could fully appreciate the man's appearance, if not, so much, his personality.

Scared, tired, angry and injured, or unconscious had hardly given him the best idea of the man's character.

Cas sat back down with a thump, and hunched, rubbing his hands over his face, through his hair as he ground his teeth

He wasn't used to these kinds of feelings, let alone in such a flood.

It was more the surprise than anything. Up until this point, he hadn't really been attracted to anyone much, a product of his upbringing, no doubt. Jimmy was the first person he had felt a true connection with, again, because of his upbringing. And, although he emphatically did not doubt his feelings, his love, for the man slumped in the chair across the room, he could not deny his fascination with the strong, hard man who lay, so vulnerable, bandaged and bruised, next to him on the bed.

Castiel bit his lip as Dean wriggled in his sleep and mumbled, sunk in his dreams. Unthinking, he reached out and took the man's left hand, a complex tattoo marking the skin, and placed it between both of his.

He was unconscious of the small smile that crept onto his lips as Dean quieted, settled, and slept calmly.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean woke up groggy, but with the sharp stab of pins and needles all the way down his left arm. The itchy, tingling sent him into consciousness far faster than he liked. He felt heavy, his limbs leaden, eyes firmly glued shut, with only a dull pounding behind his eyes. He hadn't felt this well rested since before the apocalypse. Long before. 

He groaned at that thought, and began to try and push himself upright, eyes still resolutely closed to the light he knew would meet them, denying the inevitable. He heard footsteps move swiftly and unevenly across the floor before he even got his working arm under him. A hand settled gently on his tingling left shoulder. He frowned, wondering if it was broken somehow.

“Shhhhhh, don't wake him.”

He froze. Suddenly, he remembered the reason he had slept so heavily.

He had been knocked out. By that angel— No, not by him. 

Someone had crept up on his from behind.

His eyes flew open, and panic jumped up his throat as his eyes met those of the angel.

He wasn't dead. The angel hadn't smote him.

The angel was here, leaning over him, a hand resting on his shoulder.

“I— Wha?”

A soft smile and hushed chuckle met his words, the stormy blue eyes of the angel, this close, were warm and friendly. His face; all angular lines and dark stubble. “Don't wake him, he watched you all night and well into the morning.” 

Dean's eyes followed the angel's nod to where his arm screamed with the need for a decent blood flow. There, he found his hand encased between those of the angel, his whole forearm used as a pillow, where he slept.

Two angels.

No, _two vessels_ . 

Twins.

He pulled in a shaky breath as his brain caught up, confused in spite of the revelation.

“We're not Raphael anymore, the archangel,” the man said, clearly reading his confusion. “Well, I never was. I'm Jimmy,” he continued in his smooth and deep voice, an earnest smile touching his lips.

Dean shook his head, still silent, caught staring into this Jimmy's eyes while he thought furiously.

He needed to talk to Sammy, find out what the Hell was going on. Why he was being watched by some sort of double act. What had actually happened with the angel—archangel.

The man blinked and looked down, breaking their staring match. Dean too, dropped his gaze, looking at the sleeping twin.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak, his voice dry and raspy from disuse, making him wonder how long he had been out.

“And him?” He finally asked, meeting Jimmy's gaze again. The man's expression melted from curious and concerned to something far softer, something Dean couldn't readily name.

“That's Castiel, he was the one you were trying to take out—” here his voice took on a harder tone, “and I'm the one who hit you. Sorry about that.” He looked anything but sorry, Dean thought. Protective and smug. Dean scowled, but he couldn't blame the guy. It wasn't anyone's fault that he'd thought this Castiel still contained the angel. He couldn't fault Jimmy for protecting his brother.

“You wanna help me up without waking sleeping beauty here, then?” he asked, a little testily, still hoarse. He needed a drink and some food. He needed to catch up with the council. He needed to share his news, thin as it was.

“Dean?” Sam's voice suddenly rang through the room beyond, filling Dean with relief. His brother had survived.

He wanted to pretend that he had never entertained the fear that his brother had been destroyed by the angel, but, to himself he could admit it. He had been terrified. He slumped a little, relieved.

“In here Sammy,” he whispered, for some reason, loath to wake the man sleeping by his side. He looked peaceful. Something Dean did not begrudge him.

“Dean. Oh—” Sam stopped short, looking irritated, his eyes flicking between the twins. “I didn't mean to, uh, interrupt,” he continued finally looking back to Dean with an almost angry tick in his jaw. “But, it's eight thirty, and Bobby and Ellen want to get things moving, if you're well enough? Jackson thought so.” 

Dean frowned at Sam's reaction until he finally noticed the guard at the door. He only took a moment to realize that Sam might reasonably be a little pissed at Jimmy for hitting him. He scowled, then shrugged. “Guess so, I'll be there in ten.” Sam's lip twitched as he sent the twins another disparaging glance before nodding and leaving the room.

Dean took a deep breath, willing himself calm, counting to ten slowly in his head.

Deciding to deal with his brother later, he turned his attention to the sleeping Castiel.

“Okay buddy,” he whispered, not actually intending to wake him, “you gotta let me up.” Moving out from under the man without waking him wouldn't be easy, as Castiel blocked his only way of escape; the bed was pushed up against the wall.

The other twin, Jimmy, stepped back to him, having moved away when Sam entered, and offered him a hand, lifting the covers from his legs so that he could shimmy to the end of the bed.

Their efforts were futile, however, as Castiel, twitched, groaned, then pushed himself upright with a huge yawn. His eyes blinked open and caught Dean like a rabbit in the headlights. For some reason he felt guilty, like he had been caught sneaking out. “S— Sorry?”

The man's face melted into a relieved smile.

Dean's thoughts stuttered.

He cleared his throat. He needed to focus. He had a camp to run, questions about archangels to ask, and a vessel to interrogate.

“Can you, um. I need— Actually we all need to get to the council.” He finished gruffly, putting his stuttering down to the pain still behind his eyes, and rearing up from the slash in his thigh, now tightly bandaged under his ruined jeans.

He looked between the two men. Messy dark hair, angular jaws, dark stubble. Tired bags under their blue eyes.

There was something compelling there.

-

In Bobby's living room, Ellen's helpers set plates piled with eggs and large steaming mugs of ale in the center of the table before disappearing at her nod. 

Dean, the twins and the council members all hurriedly reached forward. Dean's lip twitched at the sight of Jimmy all but inhaling the food.

It had been a long night all around, by the grim set to everyone's mouths, their rumpled hair and tired eyes.

“You two,” Bobby suddenly announced, his mouth full of half chewed eggs, pointing to the brothers, “start talkin’.”

The two men shot surprised looks at each other. Jimmy, wearing a dark hoodie and torn jeans, cleared his mouth and set his cutlery down. Castiel, in faded jeans and a black henley scowled and continued chewing, one hand wrapped protectively around his steaming mug of ale.

Dean leant back in his chair, clutching his own mug, and wryly amused at the men's completely clashing personalities.

Jimmy looked to Castiel briefly, receiving a short nod, before he began, clearing his throat with a nervous cough.

“We were taken as children from our family, by a creature called Loki. He placed us, separately, in new families. Guards. They told us later that it was to prevent the apocalypse.”

Everyone around the table either raised an eyebrow in interest, or scoffed. “Great job there, Loki,” Dean said, gesturing out the window, his bravado covering up his already caught attention. What was Loki? What was his interest in the apocalypse? Why did he think these twins worth the effort? “I get the impression it didn't work,” Dean continued, a little dryly. “What did this _Loki_ think would happen?”

Castiel spoke this time, setting his mug down heavily with a sigh, but fixing Dean with an open, patient gaze. Dean found he could already easily tell them apart by their expressions and behaviour rather than their attire.

“We are vessels for Lucifer and Michael. We were both told that if they couldn’t find vessels, they couldn't wage a war to destroy the Earth.” Dean snorted, but Castiel continued quickly, not allowing him the space to ask more questions, “By the time we were twelve, something had gone wrong, we were no longer protected. Loki's guards failed and we were both taken, separately, to new... places. Michael was behind it. He and Raphael. One day Michael never came back— Heaven fell silent,” he finished with a shrug.

“Yeah, Michael failed,” Dean interjected, unable to contain the bitterness in his voice. “It wasn't you two who were the vessels. Our dear ol' daddy and grandpappy got that honour.” Dean spat out the words, suddenly on his feet, pacing the room. “What the hell? This Loki was—”

“Dean,” Sam called, voice devoid of intonation, an order. To shut up and sit down.

“I don't think we have the answers you want Dean,” Jimmy said sombrely, wide eyed at the news of the Winchester's infamous heritage. “Maybe Loki died in the effort to prevent this from happening, and your— Your family were the preferred vessels. We don't know. We only know that we were used as…” He looked to Castiel. 

They appeared to communicate silently for a moment, the first time they exhibited anything resembling twin-type behaviour. It felt intimate, and Dean dragged his gaze away.

Castiel was the one to look away from his brother, shrugging tersely as he continued the tale. “Backup? Transportation?” He shook his head as if to say that they didn't really know, making Dean frown in thought.

“We were twelve” Jimmy said, his voice a degree lighter than Castiel's, “and easily convinced to agree to let them in. From then on, we were used whenever they wished, for all their… earthly work.” He shifted uneasily in his seat, before picking up his cutlery again, clearly finished with his explanation.

“How come you got rode by Raphael?” Bobby demanded, eyes intent on Castiel, thinking two steps ahead as usual.

Cas levelled a look at Bobby which had Dean's opinion of the man rising. Not just anyone could look at Bobby with that expression.

“I'm Lucifer's blood line vessel,” he finally answered. “Michael took Jimmy, as he is of _that_ blood line. He _is_ Michael’s. Was.” Shrugging, he added; “and Michael allowed Raphael to sully Lucifer’s.”

Bobby pulled a face, but nodded his understanding.

“So,” Jimmy picked up the tale, “when Michael didn't return, Raphael didn't know what to do. It was a few years,” he paused looking to Castiel again, “where he didn't take a vessel, or not Cas at least. It wasn't until an incident with some croats that he brought us together for the first time, placing us in the Bunker.”

“He started using Castiel as a vessel again, like you saw, but since I was Michael’s, I didn't exactly get to go out much.” Jimmy's mouth twisted in an expression of disgust and anger, self pity and sadness. 

Dean remained thoughtfully silent for a moment. He could tell they weren't telling the whole tale. But, he decided, they had enough information for the moment. And, considering what they had just told them, he didn't want to push.

One piece of information stuck out to him. They had both said ‘yes’, and could be taken by the angel at any time. Even if Castiel were the only one at risk of possession, it was more than enough to suggest a course of action.

“We need to get them tattooed,” he announced to the room, “and branded.” He finished darkly, making council members wince.

Castiel and Jimmy had begun eating again, but at that they looked up, confusion evident on their faces. “Anti-possession tattoos, spells of hiding and concealment too. But those don't work on angels. We discovered a spell that takes you off an angel’s radar. Found it a little too late as a matter of fact,” he said bitterly, remembering his friend Pamela. “But it works. We all have it, but it requires a brand to the skin, hurts like fuck, but does the job.”

Castiel grunted, a look of grudging acceptance on his face while Jimmy paled, and bit his lip, before shrugging and nodding.

They both returned to their breakfasts.

-

“I thought you were the leader of this camp?” Jimmy asked, feeling a little testy.

Dean looked up at him, only raising an eyebrow and humming gruffly in agreement before returning his attention to preparing the tattoo gun and the other precious items they needed.

“Then how come you're the one drawing on us with that then? Surely there are better things for you to be doing?” He knew he sounded antagonistic, but he was still feeling irritable with the pain from his foot and his still hungry belly, not to mention finding Castiel asleep that morning, wrapped around Dean. His still curtailed freedom was grating, too. Although, running free on the hills was hardly an option, unless he wanted to be croat bait.

He had hidden his preoccupation with finding Castiel curled up on the man throughout the morning. He had pushed down his feelings of disappointment while being questioned, but now, in the quiet room, he couldn't hide them any longer. He had felt jealous, damn it.

But, the worst part was, he wasn't sure who he felt jealous of, or why.

“Not right now,” Dean answered Jimmy's question, snapping his attention back. 

The man flipped through an ancient book, and, having found the page he needed, pushed it away to one side. “Sam and the others have everything under control, I'm the best with the tattoo gun, and I need to let my leg heal while it has a chance. Infection and badly healed wounds can, and have, cost people their lives out here. Not to mention the blood attracting croats. It's bad enough I left a trail here yesterday, no need to go wafting the smell around.”

Jimmy slumped in his chair, accepting what the man had to say. “How is your leg anyway?” Castiel asked from across the room where he was stripping the leaves from dried stalks of thyme. “I hope you weren't badly hurt?”

Dean looked up from opening a small bottle of ink, his frown lightening just slightly, a smile touching his lips. Jimmy huffed out a sigh and folded his arms across his chest.

“Nah, just a glancing blow really. Falcon, my horse, was cut up worse. Neither of us needed stitches. Just needs a day or two to close up right. Here—” Dean finished by handing Jimmy a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a cloth. “Wherever you want it. Somewhere not too obvious. Otherwise the bastards just burn 'em off.”

Jimmy nodded and raised his shirt, swiping at the skin at the base of his ribs. He couldn't help a small smile as he noticed Dean's eyes tracking his hands.

“I'm done,” Castiel stated, walking over to stand directly behind Jimmy, his hand on his shoulder, a comforting touch of his thumb brushing his neck. Jimmy saw Dean's gaze land on the touch, a frown forming.

Jimmy felt simultaneously vulnerable and daring, wondering what Dean made of their touches. He sighed out in frustration, though, as a moment later Castiel dropped his hand, leaving behind the smell of thyme and a cold spot on his neck. 

“O— Okay,” Dean stuttered, “you're done then. You can watch your br— you can watch Jimmy get tortured before it's your turn in that case.” 

Jimmy felt a slightly apprehensive squeeze of nerves as Cas huffed in amusement. Dean’s expression seemed mildly worried when Jimmy met his eyes. “It's fine. I understand this is going to hurt,” he supplied, feeling a need to ease Dean's uneasy look.

Dean smiled crookedly at him.

Jimmy's thoughts went reeling at finally being on the receiving end of one of this man's stunning smiles.

The sharp hum of the tattoo gun filled the air, counterpoint to the resolution he found forming in his gut. “Let's go then.”

Jimmy watched, ignoring the pain, as Dean swiftly and neatly inked the anti-possession sigil onto his skin. He drew freehand with no reference to the book he had lying next to him. “You are good, huh?” he mused. “Where's yours?” he asked cheekily, already acting on his plan of getting this man to smile more, to smile at him.

Dean looked up at him briefly, a smile in his eyes, if not his lips, “You askin' to see it?”

He laughed a little, then halted suddenly, conscious of Castiel sitting two feet away with his arms tightly folded over his chest, glowering.

“I'm good,” he answered quietly, knowing it was a lie. 

Suddenly, he wanted to know, wanted to see. His earlier resolution of making the man smile all but forgotten in the need to  _know_ him. He was attractive, beautiful. He couldn't help the abrupt stab of attraction, nor the jealousy still bubbling in his gut, even with the man smiling at him, eyes alive, dancing. 

His eyes were beautiful.

“So,” Dean started, breaking Jimmy's internal turmoil. He looked back at Jimmy's belly, where he wiped away a smear of ink, “Loki tried to hide you from becoming vessels, but failed, and Michael and Raphael started using you for day trips to Earth. Why'd he try and hide you guys, but not bother with me and Sammy, or our dad for that matter?”

Castiel shrugged. “We don't know. We don't even know how old we were when he took us. Neither of us can remember our real parents.” Jimmy nodded in agreement, wondering how this man was holding together knowing that his father and grandfather started the apocalypse. 

“And you were split up?” Dean asked, still concentrating on Jimmy's half done tattoo.

“Yeah,” Jimmy replied, focusing on the conversation. “At first we were put with… essentially foster parents. Had a kind of normal life, except that we knew, were always told, that we had one angel and one demon taking care of us and that we were guarded every moment. It was… almost normal? I guess? I mean, we weren't exactly loved, but we were cared for, better than some. No dinner at friend's houses, no relationships, but it could have been worse.” Dean hummed softly, neither agreement nor disagreement.

“But then something went wrong,” Castiel continued for him. “We were twelve, and I think it was my demon caregiver that told someone where we were. I don't really know, but after that there were different people taking care of us. For about five years, there were a succession of different angels making sure I had food and clean clothes, but that was about it. When I was seventeen, I was pulled away from everything I knew and thrown into Hell.”

“I— What? I'm sorry?” Dean asked in shock, needle raised, as he stared at Cas.

“Hell,” Castiel answered, deadpan. 

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “They took me to Heaven.” He wondered briefly why they were telling Dean this, when only hours ago they had hidden so much from the council. When had they decided to trust this man?

“Are you sure? I mean, of the two of you...” Dean left the insult hanging, head suspiciously ducked down over Jimmy's new tattoo again.

“Yes, I always wondered about that too,” Castiel butted in, voice musing, an evil glint in his eye, face like stone.

“What? Oh. You're a horrible man, Castiel. And you, too,” Jimmy huffed out, catching Dean's eye, a wide grin spreading his lips. He took a breath and looked over to Castiel, where he too was grinning wide. “I hate you both,” He muttered, and caught the appreciative look that passed between Cas and Dean.

Jimmy cleared his throat, feeling the jealousy burn again, a little less than before. “It wasn't permanent,” he continued, trying to move the conversation onward rather than dwell on his fluctuating feelings or their ridiculous teasing.

“It was about twenty years spent with a few months in our respective domains—”

“For safety,” Castiel interjected, adding finger quotations to the words.

“Yes, Cas. For safety,” Jim added, gently teasing. “So, a few months up there, followed by a few weeks here on Earth, before being taken back. Different places each time, different towns. We were allowed to interact with humans for a short time, rather than just their memories.” He paused briefly at Dean's frown of confusion. “Heaven is simply a... a catalogue of a soul's best memories. I could interact, but it wasn't exactly rewarding.”

Castiel grunted. “In Hell, I was mostly just left in a large room, I think they had set it aside for my use. It wasn't used any more, but… I got a good idea of what used to happen down there. Coming back to Earth was like surfacing for air.”

Dean stopped and looked into Castiel's eyes. “I'm sorry. Why you? Why Hell?” 

“He's Lucifer's vessel, or one of them. I guess they thought it more appropriate, or something,” Jimmy answered, knowing Castiel would rather not. 

“Anyway, all this time, we knew about each other. We had since we were twelve and we had said 'yes'. We agreed to allow the angels in for practically the same reasons as each other, 'you could save the world kid!' kind of thing. Seeing another person, who looked exactly like you, who was also an angel? Or at least, had one inside of them too? That took a bit of getting used to.”

“I'm done,” was Dean's only reply, handing Jimmy the things to clean up with and beginning to set up clean equipment in order to do Cas' tattoo.

There was silence as they waited for Dean to get ready, Castiel pulling his arm out of his shirt and wiping down the back of his upper arm, above his elbow. Dean's eyes almost popped out at the whole expanse of flesh Castiel exposed. Jimmy, despite the rush of want and jealousy, almost laughed out loud at the man's response as he bandaged his own tattoo.

“So,” Dean began, a little higher pitched than his normal gruff tone. “How'd you end up in the Men Of Letter's Bunker?” he questioned as he positioned Cas' arm ready to tattoo. 

Castiel looked to Jimmy, who picked up the story again. “There was a close call with some croats, about three years ago, three and a half? Raphael has a certain… attachment to me as Michael's vessel. He didn't want to risk losing either of us, so we got put in the Bunker together. Where we met, as ourselves, for the first time.” He looked over to Cas, remembering those first few months, the awkwardness, the embarrassment, the conversations, and holding each other, the tears. The kissing, more tears. Then acceptance, confessions and well—

Dean huffed out a short noise that had too many meanings for Jimmy to work out.

“Cas got to go out—”

“Yeah, because that was so much fun,” he groused, wincing as Dean’s needle met his skin.

“And I got to stay home,” Jimmy finished.

Dean raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly, thoughtfully looking between him and Castiel, before ducking his head and focusing on Castiel's tattoo once more.

Jimmy found himself hypnotised by watching Dean work for the next few minutes, the only sound the buzz of the tattoo gun, hooked up to a solar generator. Courtesy of someone called Ash, Dean had announced when they had asked.

Jimmy occasionally made eye contact with Cas, his lover, hoping it didn't hurt him too much, hoping they, as a couple, were okay, missing him, wanting to talk with him alone, to hold him. 

He realized that they had been awake, with the exception of short naps while they watched over this man that they were both obviously… interested in, for close to forty eight hours.

“So—” Dean began, but cut off as Jimmy yawned hugely. 

“I'm sorry, what were you going to say?” he asked, blinking heavily.

Dean chuckled, wiping away the last of the ink on Castiel's arm. “Don't worry about it, it'll wait until morning. We still gotta get you both branded and bandaged and fed. The morning meeting will do for all the questions I have.”

With that, Dean pushed himself to his feet. He got Jimmy to bandage Castiel's arm while he tidied everything away. He picked up the bowl of shredded herbs and turned to face Jimmy and Cas once more, looking a little nauseous. “Come on guys, this is gonna suck, so let's get it done fast.” 

Cas and Jimmy exchanged a nervous glance before nodding glumly and following obediently behind.


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel breathed out into the frigid air watching his breath. He was sitting on the steps of the hut he had slept in. After an uncomfortable night he had arisen early; the brand throbbing on the back of one arm, and the tattoo itching on the other had roused him well before dawn.

He and Jimmy had been put in a dorm room, beds filled by the transient, older teens and those without partners or children. Their beds, narrow and hard, hadn't even been close together, and he ached for the man's touch. But, as he sat there, watching his breath catch in the sinking moonlight, he couldn't help but think about Dean too.

Having spent hours in the man's company the day before, Dean's fingers touching his skin, as gentle as they could be while they inked and spelled and burnt, he discovered that the man was more than his looks. He believed that Dean was more, much more, than what he presented to most.

His smile was shy or wicked with teasing humour, his eyes arrogant, but falsely so. His tone, his words, hard, but his thoughts soft.

Castiel had been watching Dean's hands work as he had been branding Jimmy's shoulder blade. He had been soothing the panting, pained Jimmy as the clouds of aromatic mist, and stink of burnt flesh had been driven up from the application of the whispered spell and white hot, glowing metal.

Once Dean had fallen silent again, he had finally asked the man about the black ink covering the back of his left hand.

It had been interesting to watch the man's face fall, harden, then clear and soften and open, all in a matter of seconds.

“It's the camp tattoo,” he had replied as he shrugged, and dabbed salve to the red and shiny burn on Jimmy's back. “You gotta earn it. Me and the other founders got it, and maybe twenty or so others.”

Dean had fallen silent while Cas hushed the wincing Jimmy and swapped places with him. Jimmy sat, and leaned forward, listening intently.

Dean reset the spell ingredients, the herbs Cas had shredded, and placed the brand back in the blacksmith's forge to get white hot once more.

Castiel had shuddered, remembering Jimmy's attempt to cut off the scream as he bit down on a wad of leather, apprehensive of his own looming pain. 

Dean had spotted his suppressed shiver, and no doubt, pale face. He smiled, a small thing of understanding, and squeezed his shoulder, before picking up the conversation again, a good distraction while the metal heated.

“It had to be visible. In the early days, out here, a lot of people grouped up, and things were violent. There were small wars between camps, groups of people. The virus was used as an excuse to do whatever you wanted, kill because you could, I guess, but there were alliances and truces as people teamed up and banded together. You needed to be able to show who you were, where you came from.”

“Camp Salvage—named for Bobby’s place here, before we took over; Singer’s Salvage. We have always known more than the common bastard on the street, we knew from the start about the apocalypse. The original group was made up of me and Sammy. Bobby, Ellen, Ash. Rich and Justin. All still the main council members. Between us we run the place.”

Dean huffed a sigh before continuing. “Ellen didn't just run a bar. She ran the  _Roadhouse_ , a hang out for hunters.” Dean shrugged. “Bikers too.”

“We chose to tattoo our hands, it's permanent, not easily changed, like jewellery or clothing. And it's easily seen, always visible,” Dean stated, wriggling his fingers, before raising his index finger for Castiel to see. “Ears of barley, to represent Ellen, the Roadhouse, our ability to brew, for safe liquid to drink and trade.” 

He raised his middle finger with a smirk on his face. The tattoo ran from around his wrist, four different patterns criss-crossing and looping across the back of his hand, down the bones of his fingers, to the bed of his nails. 

Castiel rolled his eyes at the gesture, getting a smile from Dean.

“Bike chain, represents the bikers, but also our vulnerability, How easy it is, _we are,_ to break. It's a reminder to  ourselves to protect _all_ the links in the chain.” 

Castiel smiled as Dean tried to raise just his ring finger and gave up, leaving his pinky sticking up too. “Barbed wire. Lotta meanings. Hunters, meaning protection. Also the protection we have around the camp, one of the safest places around, not many other places have spells and warding. Also, Bobby, his home, his protection, his barbed wire, literally, in the early days.”

Castiel squinted, leaning forward to try and see the next one, even though he had fallen asleep that first dawn, head rested on the man's forearm, reading the words again and again.

“Words, type, newspaper. Mine reads Camp Salvage, Winchester, repeated. All the founders got their names. The other's who've earned it, only get the camp's name, repeated. It represents, well, partly the fact that Sam and I were living out of our car practically, at the time. Motels occasionally, but before making it to the Roadhouse, we spent more than one night relying on abandoned newspapers for information and, sometimes warmth. But, it also makes the point that we're well read here. Sam's— Well, thanks to you two, he's a Man Of Letters now. Gettin' our heritage back. But beyond that, we have a fuck ton of knowledge about the supernatural at our disposal, we also got a network of informants and spies.”

He had stopped what he was doing, clearly ready to brand Castiel. Jimmy didn't take his hand, but, as they had agreed, held Cas' arm in place so he didn't involuntarily lash out. Dean had handed him the gag so he wouldn't bite through his own tongue in pain.

“We're the best. Basically,” Dean had added with a weary smile, as he had lifted the glowing, intricately forged piece of iron. 

That moment, then. That was the moment that Castiel realized that this man was good. Beyond good, with the heaviest of weights on his shoulders. 

And Cas had felt a flair of want within him, he wanted Dean, wanted to hold him. Wanted to help him lighten the load. But—

A creek of the wooden stair snapped his attention back. Back to Jimmy sitting down right beside him.

In silence he draped the blanket from Cas’ bed across his shoulders, wriggling back under his own and leaning into Cas.

He hadn't even noticed he was shivering.

“Hey,” he said in a husky whisper, scared of waking anyone. 

“Hey.” Jimmy smiled, leaning in more and bumping his forehead against Cas'.

“Thinking about the illustrious leader?” Jimmy asked tonelessly. Castiel looked up sharply. Concerned, genuinely worried about his boyfriend’s reaction, he still couldn't lie, not to the man he loved. 

He nodded slowly, sadly, looking away, back out into the camp, the sky now the palest of grays, mist thick on the ground.

Jimmy huffed out breath, and Castiel caught him from the corner of his eye, looking out too, tracking a figure picking its way through the silent morning mist. 

“Me too,” Jimmy finally said as the figure disappeared behind the sharp edge of a hut. 

Castiel cricked his neck, whipping it around to stare at Jimmy, eyes wide with surprise. He made an unintelligible sound of question, too loud, causing Jimmy snigger.

“You're an idiot. What's not to like? Just because you came around faster, and—” he cut off, ducking his head. “And, he noticed you _first_. But —”

Cas frowned, trying to parse Jimmy's meaning, knowing the man well enough that it only took a moment. “You think he likes me. And you think he likes you, too.”

Jimmy nodded silently, slipping a hand from his blanket, and under Castiel's, weaving their fingers together. “I don't think he realizes though. He looks at you, occasionally me, with a smile he hasn't used on anyone else here, but I don't think he's aware of it.”

Cas frowned and bit his lip, trying to fathom Jimmy's words. “I don't know. I don't really see it. I see a kind man, who has found, maybe two people, who are new, and don't know him yet, and he sees a fresh chance to be himself. I don't want to read attraction into it.” 

With his chest constricting, Cas continued. “And, if I did want to read something into it, then what?” He looked to Jimmy, to his boyfriend, his partner, his lover. “You want us to fight over him? Do you want us to end this?” he asked, squeezing Jimmy's fingers, a tremor in his voice he couldn't contain. “We've been in what equates to real life now for less than two days, and you're already tired of having to hide this? You want more? A family? You want to be rid of this, this _wrong_ thing?”

He was whispering, but his voice had escalated as he found it hard to contain the emotion. He was terrified of being found out, of waking the whole camp, of losing Jim. He could not face losing Jimmy, even if he did find himself attracted to another.

“Cas,” Jimmy said, voice low, but still commanding, cutting with ease through his thoughts. “I do not want to leave you, not in any way.” He squeezed his fingers back, leaning in and pressing his lips to Cas', soft and loving, full of promise and promises. “I love you. Not as a brother, but as my best friend and my lover. I do not want you out of my life in any way, I want us to be together. Please, believe me when I say that, Cas.”

Castiel looked at the man, seeing a face identical to his own, but seeing a man so very different, and nodded, slowly, but accepting. He believed him.

Jimmy let out a sigh of relief, but took another deep breath to continue immediately. “But, yes. I do think I want more. I still want you, I still love you, but it's not like I've never seen how a real family operates. I want that, too. I want to hold someone's hand in public, I want children. We're forty-one for heaven's sake!”

Castiel's heart sank. They couldn't continue. Not if Jimmy was intent on those things.

And, he had to admit to himself, he wanted them too. Finally finding himself free, for the first time, of angelic and demonic persuasion and manipulation and complete control, he wanted to be able to exercise his own free will.

But at the top of that list of things he wanted, was a true relationship with Jimmy. He loved him.

“You know,” Jimmy began hesitantly at his side, eyeing the sun as it began its ascent through the haze, “I spent half the night thinking. I spent all the time we were being branded thinking, all the time being tattooed, too. And, It's not just Dean, although he _is_ captivating— But, I— I think I have room in my heart to love more than one soul.”

Castiel looked up, understanding, but not comprehending, searching Jimmy's eyes for his true meaning—

“Good!” Bobby's scratchy voice stabbed through the tense silence. “You two are up already. Come on, help me 'n Ellen with breakfast. If those idjits don't get fed well, we'll be in that meeting all God damned day.”

Bobby's grumbling cut through their conversation and thoughts like the finest of blades, making the two of them rear apart, and search out the man, ubiquitous baseball cap the only identifying feature from across the yard where he stood shrouded in shadow and mist.

Castiel desperately hoped that Bobby hadn't been there long, hadn't been able to see their joined hands under their blankets. “We'll just get our shoes,” Jimmy called, voice lower than normal, slightly choked. 

With his mind swirling, Castiel pushed to his frozen feet. “Let— Let's, um—” he stuttered, mind already churning, focused on Jimmy's words, on what Castiel believed he had meant, furious at the interruption, needing to know what Jimmy truly had in his mind.

-

Jimmy and Castiel still hadn't spoken fifteen minutes later when they found themselves in the warm kitchen. Jimmy was whisking eggs as Cas cracked them into a huge bowl. Bobby sat by the fire stirring the strong ale they drank in the mornings instead of the coffee they could no longer obtain, and in the evenings to unwind.

Ellen had just demanded the bowl from them, when a child, no more than ten, ran in, out of breath and red cheeked from running and the cold. “Mr Singer! Sir! Mr Turner on the radio! Says it's urgent!”

Cas, Jimmy and Ellen all looked over to Bobby who dropped the ladle in the deep pan with a scowl. “Balls.” He stood up with a groan, knees audibly popping. “I'll see you over there.” he grunted as he stomped out after the girl.

“That doesn't sound good?” Jimmy asked hesitantly.

“Honey, Nothin' Rufus has to say is ever good,” Ellen answered with a perturbed scowl.

She shrugged, turning away. “Not since his Johnnie Walker Blue Label ran out in any case.”

-

“Where's Dean?” Bobby groused, as he seated himself at the table looking drawn and tired, a change from his earlier self, not twenty minutes before. 

“I'm here, I'm here,” the man said, stepping into the room, taking an ale from Ellen as he passed. His hair was damp from the mist, droplets still clinging to his eyelashes. Castiel wondered if it may have been Dean they saw creeping through the camp, in the mist and the dark.

“Right,” Bobby grumped, fiddling with a rolled up map in his hands.

“All here and correct? Good. Now. Rufus, little ray of sunshine that he is, had some news for us this morning.” He paused, making eye contact with each person sitting around the table.

“Lucifer is on the move.

“Now, I know this ain’t usually a problem. But, he's close. Real close, and he ain't alone. There's— hoards, is the word Rufus used, of demons with him, and they ain’t out on no parade. These black eyed bastards mean business.

“What we don't know; is why.” Bobby finished, placing the map on the table, his duty done for the moment. Castiel looked over to Dean who just sat still frowning at the map, clearly thinking hard.

Castiel looked from face to face, frowning. Each one of them was silent, considering options, trying to parse Lucifer's purpose from thin air. It occurred to him, that what he had taken for common knowledge, considering no one had asked a single question, may not, in actual fact, have been so.

“I would think he's moving to intercept Raphael,” he said quietly, but unable to keep the amazement that they didn't realize that from his voice.

“What makes you think that?” Dean asked, alert, leaning forward in his chair, green eyes holding Castiel immobile.

“I—” He took a breath, willing away the flash of inappropriate thoughts and feelings that Jimmy's words suddenly elicited away. He had to concentrate on remembering everything he knew.

“Raphael has been trying to build an army. The day you rescued us, he succeeded with the, well the second part of his plan. The first—he hadn't managed at that point.” He shifted uneasily on his chair, aware he wasn't making much sense, but very conscious that everyone in the room was watching and listening intently. 

He took a deep breath, letting it out before continuing. “Raphael wants revenge against Lucifer for Michael's death. He knew he needed to be stronger, so over the past few years, he has been trying to… somehow… consume demon essence. To make himself stronger.” He looked at each face, wide eyed with shock and disbelief, except Dean, who was leaning forward in his chair, waiting intently for the rest. He felt guilty that he had not shared that information with Jimmy, but he just hadn't been able to burden the man further.

“He failed, or at least, he had failed up until the day before yesterday. After the first few... hundred or so, attempts failed, he started planning another method of attack. He has been attempting to build an army. He succeeded that day, when you found him.”

He paused, pulling a face at the memories of what he was about to describe. The horror, the agony, the fear and the exultation. “He has been perfecting a spell. It's taken a long time, with many failures. But what you saw—he can now tear apart an angel, rip it's Grace into shreds and place each part inside a victim of the croatoan virus. They become docile until given orders by him, and even more powerful than they were before, not quite angelic, but not far off.”

He finished, looking down, listening to the ringing silence in the room, unable to meet any one's eyes any longer. He was too overwhelmed by the feelings he had experienced second hand, and the judgement fuelled fear slowly filling the room. 

The wait seemed to take a small aeon, but eventually Dean spoke, voice tight with suppressed anger, a power coursing through him, so much so, that Castiel found his eyes dragged from his knees and forced to meet Dean's furious gaze. He was unable to look away, a tingle of fear trickling down his spine.

Dean pushed himself to his feet, hands flat on the table, head bent. “I am going to assume you had a spectacularly good reason for not telling us this sooner, Cas,” he stated with a tight smile and glassy eyes. Castiel swallowed hard.

“So, we have Lucifer verses one revenge-bent archangel and a load of super-croats.

“Any ideas?”

-

Dean looked around the table, forcibly subduing the panic growing in his gut.

No one was forthcoming with a bright idea to save the day. He fumed silently.

He looked back over to Castiel, eyeing the man who had delivered such terrifying news, and he knew, deep down, that the man's retention of such important information had not been intentional.

Cas' face was white, eyes lowered. For a man who usually seemed to be so in control, no matter what, whose gruff voice cut to the chase; he looked ruined. Dean only had himself to blame for calling him out. But what else was he supposed to do? If it had been anyone else he would have been up in their face, no matter who; Bobby, Sam, even Ellen, and they all knew it. But, he supposed, that was the point. _They_ all knew. The two men, sitting tight lipped and white faced next to each other at a table of camp council members, didn't. They weren't really a part of this, unwittingly forced into a role they had had no choice in.

Despite being in the thick of it, their perspective was not the same as that of the camp's.

He sighed, trying to relax his jaw and reduce his glare to a lesser intensity.

He dragged his eyes from Castiel, rubbing a hand over his face to dispel his anger a little. It was neither fair, nor helpful in the current situation. He would go and kill something later, until then, he would have to control himself.

“Okay, okay,” he finally said, sitting down again, hands relaxed, face open. “We need a plan. The point is, that now we have this information, we need to decide what to do with it. It looks as if we have Lucifer charging in to meet with Raphael. Is Raphael going to meet him? Or hold off, get stronger? Who should we go after? Who poses the biggest threat to humans? Who's the biggest danger?”

There was a brief silence, until Ellen spoke up. “Archangel with an army of tame croats? That sounds pretty damn dangerous to me. Plus, he's an unknown quantity that makes him even worse. At least we know what Lucifer and his demons can and will do.”

Dean forced a small smile to his lips, nodding at Ellen in thanks for her input. A general murmur of agreement sounded around the table until a throat cleared to his right, tight and nervous.

Dean looked over and saw Jimmy, hand raised, of all things. He nodded for the man to go ahead.

“Actually,” he began, his smooth voice cracked and tired, possibly even fearful. 

Dean cursed himself for being— _him_ , and making two grown men cringe away from him.

“We are pretty sure that Castiel is the only potential vessel that Raphael has access to.” Jimmy looked to Cas, who, still looking at the table silently, nodded once in agreement. “If he isn't in a vessel, or if he has a lesser one— We've seen how quickly the body can... degrade, if it’s not strong enough to cope with the power inside. Um, basically without Castiel he’s weak on Earth. His powers, all of them, including control, can’t manifest properly.”

Dean looked over as Bobby grunted from across the table.

Sam looked thoughtful, a frown beginning to darken his expression. “You think we ought to try and take on Lucifer?” He asked, a sudden and thoroughly mistrustful tone to his voice, one that Dean only heard when they interrogated new arrivals at the camp. Dean whipped his head around to look at Jimmy once again, to try and see what Sam was seeing.

Jimmy cleared his throat nervously again, before making a movement half way between a nod and a shake of his head. “I— I'm not a soldier, or a tactician. But, you wanted to know who was the greater threat right now? I suspect that Lucifer could cause a far higher loss of life at this moment, if he chose to.”

Dean noticed that Sam seemed to deflate, clearly whatever thoughts he had been having, had been appeased by Jimmy's words.

Dean huffed out a breath, making a snap decision. One had to be made, whether good or bad, it was better than sitting on their thumbs hoping someone else would sort out the Winchester family’s mess.

“Okay. Here's what we're going to do—”


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel yawned hugely, unable to prevent himself. He remained slumped in his chair as Bobby snorted, and cut through the stilted discussion still going on around the table. “Damn boy, ain't nothin' else to be done tonight. We're as ready as we're gonna be, and not all of us can get up at dawn without sleepin'.” 

Cas bit his lip, worried that Dean would be provoked again, but the man just sighed tiredly. “Fine. Okay. Okay— Go! We're done here. Dawn at the front gates, full kit.”

The council members and the best leaders, hunters, and fighters from the camp all began to file out of the room, each looking exhausted and relieved to be done. One or two of them nodded, or threw a small smile towards himself or Jimmy as they walked past. Castiel found he couldn't return their recognition, their acceptance. He kept his eyes down.

He wasn't upset, nor filled with guilt. Although Dean's reaction and words had hurt, and caused him to retreat into himself for a while, he could understand Dean's reaction entirely.

Dean had the lives of many on his hands, and thinking, even for a moment, that Castiel may have withheld information on purpose, information that could save the life of every person there? Well, he could comprehend Dean's sharp words, his stress and anxiety.

No, the reason he couldn't meet these people's eyes, was his anger. He was furious at himself for not completely grasping their situation sooner; the camp’s, the world’s. He was irritated that his life of imprisonment, and being used like a puppet, had not given him a greater insight, and provided him with more information in order to help. He was all but useless, despite his position, quite literally, on the inside.

“Don't know what you kept 'em two hanging on for anyway,” Bobby grumbled as he too, heaved himself to his feet. “Poor bastards could've gone to sleep hours ago.” 

Castiel finally looked up and caught Bobby's weary eye. He nodded at Cas, silent acknowledgement. Maybe it was patronising, as he hadn't said a word since the morning, allowing Jimmy to impart what knowledge they did have throughout the long day of planning, but he didn't think so.

He had a feeling that Bobby understood. A little too well perhaps. He nodded back.

Dean only grunted in answer and clapped Bobby on the shoulder as the older man followed the last of the group from the room. Cas could hear the old hunter's feet thumping up the stairs and across the room above their heads.

He raised his eyes and tracked his movement, watching each foot fall detach a few specks of dirt, easy to see falling in the light from the fire.

“It's his house. Or, it used to be,” Dean stated, his tone level, quiet, calm. 

Cas looked back down, finding Dean perched on the edge of the table, arms folded across his chest. He was watching the two of them. They were the last in the room; unsure where they ought to be going, their spaces in the dorm already re-assigned to fighters who would be rising early, unwilling to disturb their families.

Castiel finally made eye contact with Dean, feeling that anger rise again, anger that he wasn't of more use, just an empty vessel.

“I'm sorry.” Castiel flinched at Dean's words, surprised. “I shouldn't have snapped. You've been more help than you can imagine.”

Castiel watched, still in shock, as Dean rose and leaned against the mantelpiece over the fire, staring at the flames. “I'm sorry for keeping you hanging on too, giving your beds away. But, I figured that we'll need you with us tomorrow.” Dean looked up, locking eyes with Cas. “You need decent clothing and equipment. We can get you kitted out now, then I'll find you a place to crash.”

Castiel frowned at Dean's slightly shifty expression, wondering why the man looked nervous.

“Well! I'm up for that,” Jimmy announced suddenly, breaking the staring match Cas hadn't realized he and Dean had had.

Dean laughed a little, sounding on edge and settling his gaze on Jimmy. “Sure, okay,” he answered with a smile, small but genuine.

Jimmy turned fully to face Castiel the moment that Dean's back was turned, feet thumping toward the door. His expression was stern, verging on angry, something ugly.

Castiel realized with a start that the man was jealous. 

“I— I'm sorry, I don't—”

Jimmy sighed, face instantly softening.

“No, and it's okay. Look. He's not pissed at you. I'm certainly not pissed at you. So, _you_ ought to stop being pissed at you. You haven't done anything wrong, Cas. Now, can we just go, and enjoy this man's company, and each other's, may I remind you, before we get chucked in another uncomfortable bed on either side of the camp.” Jimmy sounded testy, but Castiel sighed and nodded, getting to his feet. He knew why Jimmy felt the way he did. He would too, if the positions were reversed. This was not the time for being childish though, even if the reasoning was sound. They had to learn to accept that they both liked Dean. Jealousy didn't suit either of them.

“So, you still think it's a possibility? Enjoying Dean's company?” He stopped short of saying anything more. Jimmy's implication that morning, that he could love more than one person, had been sitting in the back of his mind all day.

He wanted to know exactly what Jimmy meant, what he felt.

He huffed a silent laugh, as he waited for Jimmy's reply. He wouldn't mind knowing how  _he_ felt, himself, either.

“I think it wouldn't hurt to—yeah. Enjoy his company. Talk with him, laugh with him. I think we could all do with that, and even you can't pretend that there isn't chemistry here, with all three of us, even if it's just friendly.”

Castiel inclined his head to the side in thoughtful agreement, as they caught up to Dean, Jimmy limping only slightly. There  _was_ chemistry, between him and Jimmy, him and Dean, Dean and Jimmy. There were  _looks_ , and smiles and nervous laughs. Even the way Dean's eyes glinted as he looked over his shoulder and saw Jimmy and him, walking shoulder to shoulder, hands barely touching, was loaded.

Castiel couldn't help but raise an eyebrow and just the corner of his mouth at Dean.

What Dean took from his expression, he didn't know, but he flicked his head back around fast, mumbling “come on” under his breath, before lengthening his stride, and walking off into the night.

There were a few minutes of silence as Jimmy and Cas followed Dean, matching their stride to his. Castiel felt as if Dean was literally just leading them on, taking any route that took his fancy, until they came to an abrupt halt outside of a hut, plain wood and identical to every other.

Castiel watched as Dean pulled a small keychain from his pocket, picking out one of many without hesitation and unlocking the door.

Inside, the room was just a frigid as the air outside, but infinitely more interesting. Rough wooden shelves lined the walls, small compartments filled with racks upon racks of boots, coveralls, piles of neatly folded clothing. There were hard hats, gloves, knee pads, blue denim, black denim, an entire box of glasses for vision, and another for safety. A mountain of folded material, probably blankets, occupied a whole corner, and one small, lonely box, left on the bench that ran through the middle of the room, labelled 'maternity.'

“Woah,” Jimmy uttered, voice cracked with surprise, wonder.

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, good huh? This is Chuck's domain, but you guys can't go into a potential fight in t-shirts and sneakers. I'm amazed you haven’t got hypothermia already,” he said with a strained laugh, pulling out a few pairs of army issue style lace up boots, and throwing them to the bench.

Jimmy looked over at Cas and shrugged. He placed himself on the bench and kicked off his worn converse.

-

Dean turned away from the twins and blindly reached over to the rack that held piles of neatly folded jackets and coats. He bit his lip, listening in silence as the twins shed their shoes and pulled on new pairs, hearing the thumps as discarded sneakers dropped to the ground.

God, but he was an idiot.

He had spent the eight years since things had gone sideways, running the camp, always switched on, never once being bothered by the thought of finding someone. Yes, there had been plenty of women he had taken to his bed. He couldn't see an issue with scratching an itch with a willing partner. So why, now, did he suddenly find himself, confused as all hell, desperate to keep these two men with him?

He gripped the edge of the wooden shelf, his knuckles turning white.

He knew he wasn't entirely straight, but what with the years spent on the road with his dad, hopping from motel to motel, and then the whole shit show of chasing after the Yellow Eyed demon who killed his mother, the same demon that had killed their grandmother. Not to mention his dad saying yes to the Devil— He had never really bothered to try and hook up with a guy. 

Women were easy—not the women themselves, but the decision, the option. He found it simple to approach a female. He wouldn't have known where to even begin with a guy, so it had never come up. 

He turned, a collection of coats bundled into his arms, to see Jimmy stamping his feet happily, yet wincing slightly, in a pair of boots, and Castiel, scowling at a pair he was trying to pull off his feet without much success.

Dean sighed and placed the coats on the bench next to Jimmy, beginning to collect the discarded boots. Why did he have to find his attention drawn by not one guy, but two?

The two men couldn't be more different, Castiel quiet, gruff, taciturn, with a wicked sense of humour. Jimmy smooth, light, open, polite to a fault, unless you teased him. If you ignored their identical faces, you wouldn't think them brothers. And, after their revelations about their upbringing, Dean had to admit to himself, that he had stopped thinking of them as such.

What was worse he thought, as he violently shoved the boots back on a shelf, was that not only did the men both attract him, individually and for their own merits, he was fairly certain that _they_ didn't think of themselves as twins, or even brothers either.

The entire episode of their tattooing and branding had been enough to convince him. The occasional jealous look, and many more caring and concerned glances shared between them. He had seen the soft touches they shared, rather than the 'tough love' support Sam had given him when he'd received the brand himself.

So why, he asked himself, rolling his eyes and pulling the entire stack of warm sweaters from their shelf, why was he still thinking about them all but incessantly?

Not only could he not afford a relationship—he had to put the camp first and he wasn't cut out for that sort of thing anyway—but he was interested in _two_ people. 

Two people, who despite the apparent wrongness of it, he believed were in a relationship together. And, that was something he was a little disturbed to find he wasn't remotely bothered by. If they weren't twins, if they had different faces, he wouldn't even remotely consider that they weren't a couple, nor would he think about doing anything that might come between them. He wouldn't  _want_ to come between them. 

And, yet, here he was, bringing them on a mission they didn't have to be on, risking their lives so that he could spend more time with them, and engineering it so that he could— He turned back away from Jimmy and Castiel, who were busy pulling on coats and sweaters, finding something they liked. He hated himself for it, but he wanted to know for sure what their relationship was. He couldn't ask them, so he had given away their bunks. He had a plan.

“So, got boots? Warm stuff? Do you need new jeans?” He asked, snagging himself a pair to replace his own ruined denim hanging torn around his bandaged thigh. He forced his voice to remain light, even and calm, refusing to allow any of his tumultuous thoughts to bleed through. He had years of practice of keeping a calm façade, though, he barely had to think about it.

He couldn't withhold a huff of amusement though when Jimmy shook his head and Castiel nodded. They exchanged equal looks of confusion, frowning and irritated, before they stumbled through a jumble of words stating that they had boots and outerwear and they didn't need jeans.

“Okay, okay,” he said, pushing down the thought that he would never be able to choose between them if the opportunity ever arose. Even if one of them liked _him,_ how _could_ he choose? They were both equally adorable, funny and kinda bad ass. They were clearly strong, intelligent, and brave. They had survived being used as  vessels! Survived imprisonment. They were more, far more, than his equal. They surpassed him in every way.

He turned, needing to hide his expression as he told them where they would sleep; feigning nonchalance with his voice was far easier than with his features. Many a lie had failed because Sam had been watching too closely. Never let it be said that Dean Winchester didn’t learn. Sadly, his brother did too, and never let him tell him things without being face to face any more. 

“I can put you up in my quarters. You'll, er, have to share the pull out couch I'm afraid,” he told the shelves. But, he couldn’t resist a brief peek over his shoulder to gauge their reactions. They were standing shoulder to shoulder. Jimmy's stiff posture made him seem an inch or so taller, their arms hung limply by their sides, hands a little too close, faces completely innocent, blank masks. 

“Okay,” Castiel said, voice, as usual, low and gruff, completely dead pan and uninflected.

Dean nodded, and turned back around with a scowl, thinking that they were little shits for not giving anything away.

But then, so was he.

-

Jimmy turned a wide eyed look to Castiel as they stepped out into the cold, this time, wrapped with warm, but not bulky, layers. Castiel looked back, as they waited for Dean to relock the building, reading his lover's expression all too well. 

He bit his lip, desperate to indulge him,  _them,_ but knowing they couldn’t really risk it. They didn't know what Dean's quarters looked like, but it was highly likely they wouldn't be able to give each other any degree of pleasure without Dean noticing or finding out. 

He shook his head silently, but, beginning to follow behind Dean once more, he risked taking Jimmy's hand and entwined their fingers. Jimmy's skin was warm, and soft, similar to his own. Angel powers had at least one use. His clothes were in far better repair than Jimmy's had been, his sneakers like new, skin unblemished and uncalloused, despite the number of times his body had been forced to wield a blade.

“We'll get you some weapons in the morning. Chuck'll be handing everything out. We don't know exactly what we're facing, so it'll be full kit again, iron, salt, holy oil, silver...” Dean rambled on, leading a winding path through huts, clearly not a well used path.

The man's voice was tense, and Castiel wrote it off as nerves for the next day. The day they went to find the Devil.

Dean took an abrupt right and disappeared from sight around the corner of a hut. Jimmy let go of Cas' hand, muttering the words “where'd he go?” under his breath as he turned the corner first.

Before them was just another hut, like every other, with the door wide open and no Dean in sight.

Castiel levelled a look at Jimmy, who shrugged and stepped forward, into the building. 

“Hey,” Dean greeted, as Cas stepped foot inside. The space was small, he saw, shutting the door. The windows slatted and shut tight. Dean was kneeling in front of the dominating fireplace, placing a lit match to the large pile of kindling.

“I ain't been here since the night before we rode out to find you, Cas. Well, Raphael, obviously. It's like the God damned North Pole in here. Stupid—” Dean cut himself off, placing larger sticks on the flames.

Castiel nodded in agreement. It was freezing, there was even frost under his feet where he stood in front of the door. “Damn girl.” He caught Dean's muttered words as he placed more lumps of wood on the small fire. _What girl?_ He wondered.

He took a breath to ask, until Jimmy's elbow stabbed his ribs. He turned to see him shaking his head, a slightly amused, slightly annoyed twist to his lips.

“Jim, there's a couple of bottles stashed in the wood pile around the side of the hut, would you grab 'em? Cas? Could you get the mugs out of that cupboard over there? I'm just gonna find you some blankets, 'kay?”

They both nodded, Castiel not envying Jimmy's task of leaving even the small amount of heat the room now had. Jimmy scowled, but slipped through the door, closing it quickly behind him. Cas did as he was told, taking three chipped and well used mugs from the wooden cupboard. One was a campaign mug for Obama's election. The _last_ election. Poor bastard hadn't anticipated the Devil destroying the world  on his watch.

There was a small table, not big enough for all three of them, one chair and the couch, as well as the cupboards in the room. Two doors next to each other lead from the room at the far end, the majority of the space taken up by the fireplace, or the weapons hung neatly from hooks on the wall. Castiel thoughtfully placed the mugs on the table just as Dean banged through the right hand door, a pile of blankets in his arms.

“I, um, they're a bit damp,” he mumbled, spreading the blankets over the couch in front of the fire. “They're spares, sorry.”

“It's fine. Thank you Dean,” he said, having to clear his throat as he had spoken so few words all day.

“Hey, Are you oka—” They both started as Jimmy pushed back into the room. 

“It's—” The man paused, mouth working as he clearly tried to swear without swearing. Cas smiled widely. “Very—extremely cold out there all of a sudden,” Jimmy finished lamely, making Dean laugh loudly. 

“Yeah, sorry man. Got the beer?” Jimmy nodded, handing the bottles across. Dean popped open the swing caps, and poured a healthy measure of the foaming liquid into the mugs. 

Dean took a deep swig, “Ah, this is the good stuff. Gotta keep this shit hidden.

“One year, we lost a barrel of the autumn brew, which is our regular strong stuff. This aged two years, under a tarp in a tractor shed, back when the fuel had just run out. It carried on fermenting, we have no clue how strong it is. None of us, lucky few, who have bottles left, want to know.”

He swallowed again, pouring a little more into his own mug, raising it in a silent toast. Castiel took a sip and raised an eyebrow. Despite it's cold temperature, it burnt like spirits, sweet and dry, more like sherry than beer, although the tell-tale bitter kick was still there. 

“We tried to repeat it after we found the cask,” Dean's voice had dropped to a sad tone and he looked mournfully at the floor. “It was some of the finest toilet cleaner we ever made.”

Jimmy spluttered a laugh, just managing to avoid spitting the increasingly rare beer all over himself. Dean was grinning. Castiel smiled softly, looking between the two men, one known so well to him, and loved tenderly, the other, new and different and abrasive and rude, and sweet and childish.

_I am in so much trouble_ , he thought to himself as he shook his head at their antics, taking another sip, feeling it warm him from the inside out. 

They stood, silently drinking, watching the fire as it warmed them steadily through. Castiel stole glances at Dean and Jimmy, thoughts whirring.

Dean sighed and drained his cup, placing the empty mug on the table. “I'm beat guys, I gotta get some sleep. I'll probably be up in about four hours. I'll try not to wake you when I leave. Couch is easy to work, chuck more wood on the fire if you want. 'Night, guys.”

Cas blinked at the flurry of words, as, before he was even finished, Dean was turning on his heel and slipping through the door on the right. 

“Oh!” He poked his head back out. “Bathroom’s in there. Er, don't flush if you don't have to...”

And he was gone. Just the creaking of the floor boards proving he still existed beyond the closed door.

“Huh,” Jimmy huffed out. He flopped down onto the couch, making all the carefully laid blankets bunch up around him. He was still clutching the potent brew in his hands. 

“Huh, indeed,” Cas responded meaninglessly, sitting down more carefully next to his boyfriend. “Finish your drink Jimmy,” he told the man, downing two quick mouthfuls himself, and wincing at the burn as it went down. He placed his mug on the floor by his feet.

Jimmy smiled and got up, emptying his own mug. “Up. I'm exhausted. Let's make this bed.” 

He raised an eyebrow, an impish expression on his face, which Cas couldn't help but smile at.

“Okay, sure.”

They spent two minutes sorting the bed out, before falling, fully clothed on to the lumpy surface, pulling the blankets, which were at least warm and damp, over themselves.

“God, I missed this,” Cas breathed into Jimmy's neck, feeling a little choked as he was able to _finally_ hold the man he loved once more in his arms. 

It had been  _weeks,_ longer. It wasn't even the sex, although sharing his body and pleasure with Jimmy was always amazing. It was just perfect getting to hold and be held in return, to smell the scent that rose from Jimmy's skin. 

It had been that, the first time, just him and Jimmy, that had been the catalyst. The thing that had pushed them from a comforting hug to an erotic groan of desire, to frantically rubbing themselves against each other, coming too soon in their unshed clothing. Too scared of Castiel being taken by the angel once more, too scared of discovery, too. And retribution.

“Are you okay?” he finally whispered, feeling Jimmy shift in his arms, the fastening of his jeans pressing uncomfortably against his hip. 

Jimmy hummed. “Not really, I guess. I don't know. How can we be? Logically? With everything that's happened. But—kind of? I'm with you. We're free. Dean has made it so that the angel can't find us, can't take you from me again. And even though we can't do this, not yet, we're free—”

Jimmy paused, cutting his rambling short. His fingers dug into Castiel's skin where his hands had wound under his clothing. 

“Are you?” He asked quietly, his voice sleepy.

Castiel smiled into the firelight, “I don't know. What I do know, though, it that this position is going to be hard to explain come morning, when Dean comes out here.”

Jimmy shifted and looked up at Castiel.

“I don't care any more. I like the man, you like him. I'm still convinced he likes us. I have this idea… I'd like to be with both of you. And for both of you to be together and with me. Does that make sense? I can't let the thought go. But, he'd have to want it too, and you, obviously. So, maybe we should just let him see what we are to each other?”

Castiel blinked slowly, his guts seeming to turn to lead. But, Jimmy's warm hand snaked across his belly and he relaxed, deciding that maybe his boyfriend was right. He smiled a little as Jimmy's finger's lazily kneaded the muscle of his stomach, his fingertip playfully dipping into Cas' belly button, making him squirm. Jimmy lay back into him, smiling into his neck.

“I love you Castiel, but I really like him too.” He spoke the words against Cas' skin, his hot breath making him relax even further. “But,” Jimmy continued, “if he can't deal with us, then to Hell with him. You're more important. Than anything. Let's call it a baptism of fire for him, huh? If he runs, then we have our answer. If not… Well...”

Cas closed his eyes, thoughts running through his head, too fast.

Jimmy had a point though. They hardly knew the man, aside from the apocalypse—and he huffed a laugh at the ludicrousness of that—they had nothing keeping them in this place now, no ties, nothing to lose, apart from Dean's rare warm smile, his mischievous eyes, his freckles, his sweetness and goodness—

“Fine,” he breathed out, staying completely still until he felt Jimmy's warm, dry lips brush against the spot of skin just under his ear. Jimmy kissing him there never failed to send lighting right down his spine, and straight to his groin.

“Jim—” he whispered, relaxing into the hard kisses against his neck and jaw, already canting his hips up in search of sensation there, despite being barely hard.

“Cas, I love you,” Jimmy breathed into his ear, sending Cas shuddering. “You're so beautiful,” he murmured, pushing up to place a hard kiss against Cas' lips. He drew back a little, making sure Castiel was looking right at him. “To me, you are everything.”

Cas whimpered quietly, unable to reply, but running his hand through Jimmy's hair, sliding his thumb against his cheek bone. Jimmy smiled and wriggled back down to slot against Cas, their clothes catching as Jimmy began rocking his hips. Cas groaned. He wanted,  _needed,_ this man's gorgeous warm, bare skin against his.

“I want you,” Cas murmured, rolling his hips up impatiently, greedily, suddenly filled with desire.

“How?” Jimmy said lightly, teasingly.

Cas opened his eyes, seeing Jimmy's warm expression in the dying firelight, an invitation. He meant his question.

He pushed himself up a little and kissed Jimmy, licking inside, revelling in the feel of his tongue against his own.

“I miss feeling you, Jim, your skin. I want you naked, against me,” he whispered, going back in for another kiss, unable to stay away. His hands roved down Jimmy's back to fix one on his jean-clad ass, the other on his hip, tugging at the belt loop.

“And,” he continued, whispering directly against Jimmy's lips, “I want you to fuck my mouth.” He pulled back, with a hungry grin. He knew Jimmy loved to take him that way, to take control, “but, right now, I want you on top, I want you slow, I want to grind up into you. I want to feel you, I want to see you.”

Jimmy groaned gutturally in response, reaching down between them to palm at his own cock. “Oh fuck,” Jimmy whispered, making Castiel moan, far louder than he should. Jimmy rarely swore. Jimmy’s swearing could probably make Castiel come on it's own. His voice ruined, normally so smooth, sounding out the words he never meant to say. 

Castiel pulled his fingers from where they had found themselves locked in Jimmy's hair and wound down his body, pushing into the small of his back, loving the curve of his spine, and slipping up the swell of his ass inside his jeans, until the fastened waist band prevented him groping any more.

He whined, deep in his throat, wanting,  _needing_ to feel Jimmy against him, to touch him. 

“Cas, stop. Hang on,” Jimmy breathed and pushed himself up until he was kneeling over Cas. A loud creak of the floor had them both freezing a moment. Castiel quickly figured the noise was Jimmy's shifting weight on the pull out couch and reached up to Jimmy, tugging at his jeans. Jim swatted his hand away with a grin and fumbled with the fastening himself. 

Castiel, everything else forgotten, looked on in anticipation, his mouth watering as Jimmy's flushed cock finally sprang free.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, licking his lips, leaning over, desperate to taste him.

“No,” Jimmy whispered, a smile on his lips, “lie back, get comfy, undo your jeans, take off your sweater.”

He looked down at himself, realizing that his aching cock was pushing hard against his fly, he was still fully clothed. He rushed with heavy fingers to undo his jeans and shed his layers. His need to taste his boyfriend's heavy, weeping dick was not forgotten in the rush to do as the man asked.

When he looked up again, Jimmy had pushed his jeans down, and pulled his own shirts off. He was gloriously naked, kneeling on the bed, his cock red and flushed and solid in the dark glow of the fire. 

Castiel groaned, once more trying to push up, to lean in and take him in his mouth. “Lie back and open up.”

Castiel gasped in surprise, before eagerly doing exactly as he was told.

He rolled his hips up, desperate, desire thrumming as Jimmy swung a leg over, straddling him. Jim's hands gripped the back of the couch, his balls brushing Castiel's chest before he rose up and nudged the crown of his cock against Castiel's lips.

Cas licked the head, getting to taste him at long last, sighing in pleasure.

He closed his eyes and, smiling just slightly, tilted his head just right, opening his mouth wide.

They moaned in unison as Jimmy's cock entered his mouth, slowly sliding the length of his tongue, heavy and warm, always feeling bigger than he imagined. 

He didn't bother moving, just opened up wider, an invitation for Jimmy to use him as he would. He firmed his lips about the shaft, and his eyes rolled beneath his eyelids as Jimmy's head nudged the back of his throat. He groaned, loving feeling all of Jimmy, before he slid out, so,  _so,_ slowly.

He opened his eyes, looking up to see Jimmy. His eyes were closed in pleasure as he withdrew, his cock shiny with Castiel's saliva.

Cas moaned again at the sight, snapping his hips up into nothing but cold air.

“Fuck, _Cas_ ,” Jimmy huffed, making Castiel roll his eyes back and moan again, swallowing around Jimmy as he slid all the way in again.

He held on to Jimmy's thighs, fingers digging in, scratching his blunt fingernails across the skin.

He brushed one hand lightly across his hair there, tickling Jim until he made an irritated noise in his throat and thrust in more sharply. Cas chuckled around his full, hard length, and sucked hard in response.

Jimmy groaned in appreciation and Cas snaked a hand up further, over his ass, loving the smoothness of his skin, and dipped a finger in between his cheeks. He brushed the pad of his finger lightly over Jimmy's hole, eliciting a gasp and another groan; loud and long.

He pushed Jimmy away, making him whine in disappointment when he slipped completely from Cas' mouth. With a grin he sucked on his fingers, coating them before pulling Jimmy right back into his mouth, sucking hard and rolling his tongue around him. 

Without waiting a moment, he slipped his wet fingers back between his cheeks and pushed up into Jim, just breaching him. 

“Shit, _shit_ , Cas—” Jimmy breathed out, thrusts stuttering, and Castiel pushed his finger in even deeper. He began a rhythm, working in time with Jimmy as he fucked faster and faster in to Cas' mouth.

They stayed that way, Castiel thrusting his finger up into Jimmy, stretching him and slipping in a second, then a third while Jimmy continued to rock his hips. He sped up, Cas' jaw aching as Jimmy started hammering into him, Cas sucking hard all the while.

“O— Okay, shit, we need to—” Jimmy muttered, pulling fully out of Cas' mouth with a filthy noise, a string of saliva and precome dribbling down his chin, making Jimmy moan again, “It's been—too long—need you. Now.”

Jim was panting hard, his hips still rocking, his dick just inches from Cas' face.

Cas whined a little, wanting Jimmy's hot come down his throat.

He had forgotten almost everything else, just his fingers methodically working Jimmy's ass, until Jim twisted away, and wrapped a hand around his own neglected dick. He jerked in pleasure and surprise. His fingers reflexively curled inside Jim, making him pitch forward, letting Cas' dick go, wailing loudly.

“Jimmy, Jesus, you gotta—” he mumbled, unable to comprehend that he'd hit Jimmy's prostate, just needing to be inside him, _now._ He withdrew his fingers sharply. Jimmy was shaking above him, arms trembling, breathing hard. He whined at the loss. 

He gently pushed against the man's hips and Jim went easily, awed expression fading into an anticipatory grin.

Cas, lost in the need, the desire, was already rocking his hips up. He cried out when the tip of his cock hit hot, fevered flesh. Jimmy shushed him, leaning in to press a kiss to the bolt of his jaw, then he covered his mouth his with own, pressing his tongue forward, sliding it against Cas' just as his fingers, once more, closed around Castiel's dick. Jimmy swallowed his groan.

“Plea— Please—” Cas panted, eyes screwed shut, as Jimmy sat back a little, just hovering, his fingers lightly holding Cas' cock with the head pressed against Jimmy's wet, waiting, empty hole.

“Look at me.”

Jimmy's command sent lightening down his spine and desire straight to his cock. His eyes sprang open. 

He found Jimmy's gaze fixed upon him, skin pink-gold in the light of the glowing embers, cock  _so very_ hard and glistening, bobbing temptingly before him.

He whined his want, unable to articulate how awful Jimmy was for teasing him.

The man smiled wide, eyes crinkling, then widening in pleasure as he lowered himself onto Cas' straining erection.

Castiel's back arched in ecstasy as his entire length sank into Jimmy's tight heat, his hands scrabbling at his thighs, the movement so slow as to be torturous.

Jimmy let loose a gasp as he bottomed out, his ass resting against Castiel's pelvis, his balls heavy on his lower belly.

They both held still, exulting in the moment of connection, Cas' back slowly relaxing back down, eyes opening once again to take in the awe-inspiring sight of his boyfriend, taking him, full, flushed, beautiful. 

He moaned, with pleasure, and with the need to touch Jimmy, to make him come hard. But he wanted,  _too_ , to make Jim come untouched, just from the slow slick slide of his shaft deep inside of him.

Jimmy leant forward, still seated fully, and took his weight on his elbow, low enough to lick into Castiel's mouth again.

It was everything he needed.

Jimmy slid up his shaft, so slowly that the kiss felt almost more overpowering, more erotic, until he rolled his hips forward, clenched and slid back down in one fluid movement, swallowing the aborted wail that Cas couldn't hold back.

Jimmy chuckled deep in his chest and repeated the movement, again, and again and again. 

Cas could hardly catch his breath, wanted desperately to flip him and pump down into Jim hard, to take him, make him completely his, but—he couldn't remember why, they were meant to be quiet, and this—this was mind blowing. 

He pushed himself up onto his elbows instead, and latched onto Jimmy's neck, kissing and licking and sucking, tasting the salt on his skin and thrusting his hips slowly in time with Jimmy's torturous rolls.

Jim sat up fully, sliding down perfectly, meeting Castiel wholly. He didn't rise up again, grinding down hard, his back arched, baring his throat, rotating his hips in tight circles. Panting, he scrabbled to hold Cas' hands, frantically weaving their fingers together. Cas' head fell back, mouth open, breath coming in short gasps, hips undulating pointlessly under Jimmy's weight.

“I'm— I'm not gonna— I,” he tried to warn Jimmy, unable to get the breath to tell him he was close.

Jimmy didn't respond though, only dropping his hands to press against Cas' chest in order to grind down harder onto Cas, pushing him deep.

“Shi— Fuck!” Cas finally gasped out, the sensations too much. His muscles clenched, his hips canted up, hard, into Jimmy, making _him_ cry out in turn. 

Jimmy's wailed cry of pleasure sent him over the edge.

He came hard inside Jimmy, whimpering as Jim inhaled sharply, and he, too, came. His come splashed hot across Cas' belly and chest.

Cas swore as another spasm tugged at him at that sensation, another thrust and another load filled Jim, leaving him empty and awed, heaving for breath and mesmerised.

Their eyes met, Jimmy still sitting on top of him, a tired, dazed smile on his face. He was beautiful.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean's mind really should have been on the present. There were plenty of problems to be contemplating, but instead it kept wandering. Wandering to the dark, quiet of his quarters two nights previously.

He shook his head and scowled, forcing himself to think, to focus.

It was raining hard, heavy and cold. They were soaked to the bone. The incessant rainfall was good for helping to disguise their tracks, but it made everything else more difficult, more miserable. 

They were a sixteen hour hard ride from camp, meaning they were vulnerable. The horses and men were all tired, having spent a wet, uncomfortable, and very cold night under canvas. They had run headlong into this all but blind. They didn't know what to expect, how many demons or croats might pop up unannounced any second.

All they knew was that Lucifer was in town.

But his mind was elsewhere, focused intently, once again, on the two men sitting astride their borrowed horses with one grumpy, and one angry look of severe discomfort on their faces.

“Halt,” he said quietly, barely audible to himself over the noise of the rain, the hoof beats, the whinnies and snorts, the clunking of knives and guns hitting legs, packs and saddles.

Sam, though, heard well enough. Dean carried on a little, trotting ahead a few lengths as his brother, his second in command, twisted in his saddle and yelled, loudly, for everyone to come to a stop.

He wondered if Castiel and Jimmy felt relieved that they had come to the end of their gruelling ride, or, like he ought to have been; were dwelling on what might greet them.

Dean listened as the acting sergeants picked up the call, causing an end to most of the din. He sighed and slumped a little in the saddle, enjoying the distance from his responsibilities, even if it was only by a few yards. 

His mind drifted once more, thinking of Castiel and Jimmy, as he scanned the gray landscape, shrouded by sheets of rain.

They had come to a narrow river, beyond which sat the small town. It was barely a blip on the map, just a few buildings sitting squat by the water.

The bridge looked mostly intact, a rarity, even this far away from civilization. It usually meant that a place had been hit hard and fast by the virus, with little destruction, just rabid humans running through a place, infecting one another, and leaving to wander aimlessly in the endless fields, until they sensed fresh meat; uninfected human.

He gazed at the bridge, briefly wondering where he should place his men so as to protect their retreat if it came to it.  _When_ it came to it. 

He knew they couldn't fight Lucifer, not really. They were here in case an opportunity presented itself.

His mind drifted again, to  _that_ night. 

An opportunity had presented itself to Dean and he had taken it. He had set Castiel and Jimmy up in what passed for his living room. That tiny inkling he’d had, was proved more than correct. 

He bit his lip willing his thoughts back to the present, trying to ignore the building heat in his groin. He dropped his head briefly, water running into his eyes. It should not be possible to get a hard on after sixteen hours in the saddle, he was certain. 

But then, he thought, he had good cause. The memories of hearing gentle murmuring as the men talked quietly, silence, then a whispered 'oh fuck' breathy and perfect.

He had sat up from where he’d been lying on his bed, ears pricking, already drawn in. 

At a deep wanton moan he had swung his legs off the bed and stood, heart racing, curiosity burning.

At the sound of a throaty whine he had noiselessly stepped toward his door. He'd cursed silently when he opened it a crack, causing the hinges creak loudly.

The sight that had greeted him had left his mouth dry. Jimmy kneeling up on the bed, opening his jeans, his full, heavy, hard cock right there—

Dean's dick had filled instantly at the sight.

He wriggled uncomfortably on the horse, trying to sit in a way so as not to show just how his thoughts were focused.

He glared at the bridge again, forcibly redirecting his thoughts.

He wondered if maybe just a small team should go ahead as recon first. They had studied the maps, but who knew what state the place was in beyond the first line of solid buildings he could see across the swollen river.

He reached up and wiped the icy rain from his eyes, shifting again and wincing at the dual sensation of his hard cock pulsing at the pressure inside his jeans, and his chafed thighs screaming in pain from his hours spent in the saddle.

He huffed out a sigh, trying not to picture Jimmy fucking into Castiel's mouth. He had only been able to see Jimmy, head thrown back, moaning in pleasure, his knuckles white on the back of the couch, his skin golden in the light from the fire.

He'd nearly come, entirely untouched, when he'd seen Jimmy twist to reach Cas' cock too, when he'd cried out and pitched forward, the sheer pleasure evident on the man's face, as Cas did— _something_ to him.

At that point he had given in. He'd reached down greedily and pumped his own cock, still clothed inside his shorts.

He had felt so wrong, like such a pervert watching them—but then Jimmy had moved back and, although he couldn't see, could only see his face, he knew he had slid down onto Castiel's erection. His face had glowed with relief, desire, pleasure, awe. 

He’d bitten off a groan, even as the two men became more vocal, and jacked himself harder, faster. Any inappropriate feelings of watching, unknown, of being so aroused watching them, of their relationship— It had all been forgotten as his want had risen.

He hadn't been able to tear his gaze away, a flush rolling through his body as he heard Castiel orgasm, the sound beautiful, so deep and guttural, primal. Then, Jimmy had followed behind. 

He had known—but he had never indulged, never let himself think about it. He'd never seen another man come before. He pulsed _hard_ into his shorts, soaking his hand as he'd seen Jimmy's ropes of come release, his moans and gasps of pleasure only spurring Dean's reaction on.

He had teeth marks bruised in to his knuckles from trying to contain his own groan of need, want, desire, pleasure.

It had been one of the most eroitic things he had seen, and even now, cold, sore, tired, with a bone deep fear running through him, it was still enough to get him going. He didn't imagine it would take much to make him come right now, if he were in the position to do so.

But, he wasn't.

He was sitting on a tired and stinking horse, looking blankly at a bridge, about to run, all but unprepared, to meet up with dear ol' daddy's meat suit, being ridden with apparent glee, by the Devil himself.

-

Sam eyed Dean, at the head of their small team, with concern.

His brother led them through the tense and empty streets, only two other hunters as support, and, Sam scowled, the twins.

Dean had been quiet all day, quieter than Sam would have expected, even for a day spent riding toward the Devil. It left a nagging twist in his gut. He didn’t know what had got into Dean but he needed to snap out of it. In their current situation there wasn’t room to be anything but the fearless leader that the camp required.

They were edging into the burnt out town, rubble and gray mud covering the cracked asphalt. Covering every sound they made, impossible to ignore, was a roar of a crowd, the march of feet. It put Sam in mind of the crowd leaving a football game, but without the excitement, the joy. The noise was chilling. It was why they were creeping down a back street. It was why Dean ducked into every intact doorway, searching for a safe vantage point.

The sound had started only five minutes after Dean had their team, all but a set of guards, cross the bridge spanning the river. He had ordered the dismount immediately, pointing at Jimmy and Cas, the other two fighters and Sam, before walking forward, the tension visible in his shoulders.

“In here,” Dean said softly, jerking his head to motion the twins through a doorway and bringing Sam’s thoughts back to the present.

They had not yet set eyes on the source of the noise, but knowing they were here to find Lucifer, the odds were that it wasn’t anything good.

He scrutinised his brother as he ducked under the cracked lintel of the doorless frame.

Dean looked tired.

Sam couldn’t blame him. The meeting, the pressure, the long journey—it would all take it out of him. But there was something else, something beyond Dean’s perpetual insomnia.

He looked haunted.

Sam bit his lip as he heard Dean order the two fighters to stand guard on the street, his voice coarse, abrasive. He didn’t believe Dean was losing his nerve, but— Something was going on with his brother.

He was willing to admit, to himself at least, that now wasn’t the time to bring it up with Dean. He had enough to worry about, with Lucifer breathing down their necks. Even Dean’s strange adamance that the twins accompany them on their mission paled into insignificance when considering what they were facing. He didn’t need Dean flaring up at some perceived accusation of weakness while the Devil was in town.

He shook his head and followed Jimmy up the uneven stairs.

-

“Shit,” Dean huffed at the same time that Sam whistled under his breath.

Flowing down the street of the ruined town, below the upper window of the near-intact house, was an army.

The crowd; a mixed up, rag tag assortment of people. The normal looking; fat and thin, tall and short, well presented and downright scruffy, but black eyed, and those that were bloody, filthy, wild looking messes. Demons and croats respectively. 

“There's more here than we can hope to deal with, Dean,” Sam stated matter-of-factly. 

“No shit.” He hissed the words, numb by the huge number of bodies, all powerful in their own way, each able to kill a human with not much more than a swipe of their arm.

They had, maybe, two hundred people in the camp, around half of that were capable of fighting. Less than fifteen of them were hunters.

They were all dead men.

He turned, an eyebrow raised, “Cas? Jimmy? Any wonderful insights on what the fuck Lucifer is doing?”

He had insisted that they come with them in the recon team, and even into the dilapidated building they were perched in. The reasoning he had given was that they may have insight the rest of them couldn't hope to have. The reality was that Dean still couldn't let himself leave them behind, out of his sight. He cursed himself now as his lie was becoming truth. 

The two men edged toward the window from where they had stood at the back of the burnt out and broken down room.

Their guns were held low, uncomfortable in their hands. It made Dean aware of how stupid he had been, bringing them into this. 

Jimmy paled as he looked out the broken window, and saw the shambling horde below them. 

Castiel, stoic as shit, just grimaced.

Dean suddenly had an urge to make the man lose control, utterly. Just like Jimmy had done.

He clenched his jaw and banished the thought as Castiel took a breath to speak—

“Boys!”

Dean jolted at that familiar, warm and husky tone, distorted into something sick and sinuous. 

Dean caught Sam whipping his head around before he did a one-eighty and came face to face with the mortal remains of one John Winchester. He stood between and behind the surprised Jimmy and Castiel, a grin plastered on his face, his arms wide in a mockery of a 'ta-da! Here I am!' pose.

Dean and Sam both took involuntary steps back, hitting the crumbling wall behind them. They should be used to it by now, Dean supposed, but even eight years hadn't been enough to become used to the face of their father being worn by the Devil, worn wrong, his features twisting differently, movements too unusual, voice distorted.

Not to mention that seething pure evil that sat just behind his glassy, dead eyes.

Well, they assumed he was dead.  _Hoped_ he was dead. 

They had mourned him as such from the day he had said yes.

For more than one reason, too.

Dean still found himself lying awake at night sometimes, wondering why the stupid bastard had thought agreeing to let the Devil inside of him was a good plan. He scowled. They would never know. It wouldn't change things. Not now.

“Lucifer,” Sam hissed out, fury battling the tremor of fear in his voice. 

Dean, once again, found himself inappropriately aware of the twins. They stood bracketing Lucifer, both fixed and frozen in fear—or—bored curiosity. Dean was suddenly unsure which. Castiel certainly seemed disinterested, actually looking down at his foot as he poked at the detritus there. Jimmy was more transfixed, features taut and hands clenched on the gun. 

It was a ridiculous thought, but Dean suddenly wanted to tell him to ease up, or he'd shoot someone by accident.

Dean cursed inwardly not a moment later, though, as Lucifer followed his gaze. His eyes flashing briefly red, darting side to side as he looked first at Jimmy, then Cas.

“Oooh! What do we got here, kids?” Lucifer asked gleefully, side stepping, almost dancing, into Jimmy's personal space, making him rear back and flinch away.

But, the man held his ground. Dean's opinion of him soared, not that it mattered. They were in a small upper story room with the Devil. 

Their likelihood of survival was slim.

“Another vessel?” Lucifer sniffed the air near Jimmy's head, canting his own too close, making jealousy and hatred rise in Dean's chest.

“But I couldn't sense you,” he seemed to muse, head rolling on his shoulders to look Jimmy in the eyes. “I know you two block-heads are hidden,” he said scathingly, dismissively as his gaze landed on Dean and Sam, “but you?” He snapped back to Jimmy, who gulped, “I wondered what had happened to all the beautiful, lovely vessels out there.” 

He hummed contemplatively, still staring at Jimmy, almost right  _through_ him, Dean thought. 

“Have you been hiding them from me Dean-o?” Lucifer sing songed. Dean simply narrowed his eyes, making no reply at all. 

But Lucifer was no longer paying attention to him, nor his bravado.

Jimmy flinched and finally stumbled back as Lucifer seemed to release him. John's body lightly whipped around, his eyes fixed on Castiel's, so close they would have been breathing the same air, if angels needed to breathe.

“You. You're mine, aren't you?” the Devil smiled dreamily, and Dean desperately found himself wishing they had a way to kill him, mourning the loss of such a great opportunity as this. Lucifer was distracted— But, Dean knew, they wouldn't even have a chance to dig into their bags for holy oil, if that would even hold him, before he snapped their necks with a mere thought.

Their best chance for surviving this lay in hearing him out. Waiting, and hoping.

It was a pathetic commentary on his tactical and leadership skills.

Dean scowled as Lucifer dragged in another, long, and unnecessary, breath through his nose, head bobbing close to Castiel's.

“You—” his face crumpled, the haggard eyes he wore, narrowing in fury. He looked affronted, disgusted, and his emotions contorted John's features, lightning fast, into something grotesque.

“You have another’s Grace in you—” 

Lucifer hissed the words, eyes searing red briefly once more, his voice tight, low, controlled.

Castiel's face was a rictus of fear. Dean screamed internally, the first time he had seen fear on the man's face and the expression was  _wrong._

He  _needed_ Castiel to move, to flee, but he was clearly held with Lucifer's twisted, awful Grace. The man could hardly draw breath, Dean could see his chest trying to expand, his face beginning to redden.

Dean tried to lurch forward, to protect him from Lucifer's fury, but he too, was held fast, his body bound, refusing to obey him.

“Leave hi—” he began, his angry growl cut off mid-word as Lucifer shot a glance his way that snapped his jaw tightly shut.

All he had now was a litany of _fuckfuckfuck_ rolling around his head as he watched the Devil lay a palm against Castiel's cheek, his now-hazel eyes boring into Castiel's wide blue ones, white showing all around.

Dean was unable to look away, frozen, but fuelled by guilt, horror, fear. Seeing Castiel's frozen mask of terror made Dean's chest ache. He wanted to hide the man away, hold him and protect him.

It was his fault.

He had brought Castiel and Jimmy here, Lucifer was on their trail now because he couldn't bare to spend a few measly hours without them near him, to look at, to dream about.

He was going to get them killed.

“Raphael,” Lucifer suddenly whispered darkly, his voice seething and low. 

Dean's attention snapped back at that. The fallen angel must have been able to read Castiel's mind—or perhaps a remnant of Grace still sitting within him.

Lucifer moved fast, his head whipping around to stare at Jimmy once more. If John had still been alive, the move would have snapped his neck. Dean watched, cringing, as Lucifer’s palm remained resting gently, almost a caress, against Castiel's face. 

“ _He was_ —” the Devil's voice was questioning, but dark, revulsion dripping from his words.

Lucifer's head silently rotated back to face Cas, reminding Dean of The Exorcist for an absurd moment.

“But that cannot be,” he whispered in to Castiel's face, “archangels are the most powerful and most beautiful beings created. We would never stoop so low, would not sully our Grace— We should love God! Only God! We should all only love God. No one and nothing else is worthy!”

Lucifer was all but screaming into Castiel's face, saliva flying.

All that flooded Dean's brain was numbing white noise.

Lucifer suddenly turned his head once more, his father's face so different than it was in life, fixing him and Sam with a fury-ridden glare. 

“He will pay,” he hissed in a snarl and—

He was gone.

Castiel fell to his knees, coughing and gasping, holding his ribs.

Both Dean and Jimmy flew to him, crashing to the floor, arms out to hold him up, desperate to ensure he was okay.

Jimmy's arm encircled him. Dean, desperate to do so too, held back, knowing it wouldn't be welcomed, unable to forget Sam's presence behind him. Scared, despite the circumstances, of discovery, both theirs and his.

“I— I'm fine. That w—was just a bit—intense,” Castiel stated horsley, making Dean huff a relieved laugh, amazed by the strength of the man.

Dean looked on as Jimmy muttered and held Cas tight to his chest. He could not think of a reason to remain by their side. It left him feeling gutted, as if his chest were still bound by Lucifer's Grace.

He turned slowly to Sam, who, thankfully, only looked concerned and not suspicious.

Behind him, through the open window, Dean could see the roiling mass of demons, interspersed with fewer croats, swarming away through the streets. No longer was the hum and tension of battle or violence in the air. It had been replaced by a single mindless urgency; marching orders.

They were leaving.

-

It took an hour for the horde leave, where they watched from their upper window.

There was nothing else to do. They assumed that Lucifer had somehow given orders to his followers, probably to speed up their hunt for Raphael, after whatever he had discovered from Castiel's mind. 

They didn't dare step onto the streets to retreat. They weren't willing to bet that the demon's orders kept them that far in check. And, Dean would not further risk the lives of the two men he had dragged into this.

“So, what's the plan now?” Sam asked as the tail end of the mockery of a parade came into view. 

“Back to camp? Wait for Lucifer to find Raphael? Wait for their two armies to destroy each other? Wait for the world to end?” Dean asked, his voice anger filled, but hiding a true despondence. 

What more could they do? Sit tight and hope for the best, fortify their walls and wait for the croats and demons to batter their way inside?

Sam straightened from where he crouched next to him at the window. Towering over him, he crossed his arms, a true bitch face gracing his features.

“Stop wallowing Dean. Shit's happened, we have to deal with it and move on, like we always do. Isn't that what you always told me? We'll deal with it, just like we always do.”

Dean just stared up at his brother, aware of the eyes of Jimmy and Castiel fixed upon him too.

He sighed in defeat. Sam was right. Bitching and giving up wouldn’t save them, save Cas and Jimmy, their camp or the world. Just because he couldn’t see a way forward didn’t mean he got to give up. It wasn’t Cas’ fault, or Jimmy’s, or anyone else’s on the damned planet. _They_ didn’t start the apocalypse. That had been a Winchester. John and Henry Winchester's poor decisions had got them into this mess, had destroyed the world. However noble their reasons for saying _yes,_ it had been a stupid move. Both Dean and Sam knew it, had learned from it, and had spent, what felt like a lifetime now, doing their best to make up for their kin's mistakes. 

Trying to wipe the slate clean of the Winchester's bad name.

Just because shit hit the fan once again, didn't mean they got a free pass. It didn't mean they suddenly got to walk away. They couldn't shrug and say it hadn't been their fault.

It was their duty to clean up after the Winchester family's messes.

He stood.

“Fine,” he sighed, “we'll head back and—I dunno. Council meetin' I guess. You two—” He suddenly turned, his mind fixed, finally, determinedly on the mission. 

“You clearly know more about this than you're lettin' on. I want to know the full fucking story so as not to walk in to some fucking trap of a war zone again. What did Lucifer see in that head of yours, Cas?”

His voice was loud, not quite shouting as his threw those last words at the man's stoic face.

He hadn't realized how God damned scared we was, of dying, of losing Sam, of letting down these two men, of allowing hundreds of lives that depended on him be murdered simply for still being human. And that fear was fuelled by the fact that Cas and Jim were hiding things, whether on purpose or just because they didn't truly understand the situation, it didn't matter. It made him suddenly furious, filled with rage that they were endangering themselves via him, by withholding information. 

Did they not realize they were at war? 

Did they not get that they were the prime pieces of the puzzle that might save the fucking planet?

Jimmy looked down, chastised, but with a deep frown cutting his forehead. Castiel on the other hand was just looking at him, head tilted a little to the side, an assessing look on his face.

“Fuck. Let's just get back and hope to hell that our fucking friends didn't get eaten while we were hiding up here.” Dean heaved the words out as if dropping a heavy weight. He was done.

He was tired, and _so fucking done_. He wanted a rest. From constant vi gilance, from fighting, from the responsibility. 

When they got back, he knew he'd be in meetings for hours, days. He just wanted to escape into the relative freedom of the woods, where he knew no one would find him, maybe just for half an hour. 

Look up at the stars and breathe.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean had lost count, _much_ earlier in the day, of how long he had been awake for.

The last time he had laid down and slept had been for nearly four hours on their journey to intercept Lucifer. It had been a long miserable night in the cold. Sleeping under his old, patched tent, accompanied by the downpour hammering on the waterproof material above his head, the whinnys of horses and the snores of the men

The next night, _after_ their run in with the Devil, he had stopped for the night only for the benefit of the horses.

 _They_ couldn’t continue non-stop, were too precious, and so he had called the halt. Rather than lie down to sleep himself, though, he had joined the look-outs that sat in a wide circle surrounding the group, keeping an eye and an ear out for any problems; croats, demons, the Devil himself.

The joke had gotten old _years_ ago, yet he still said it, the men still laughed.

He smiled at the thought, proud of the camp, only half listening to the meeting he was still sitting in, even at past four in the morning.

The guard had changed at one that morning, and again at four, giving his team a decent chance to sleep and rest.

He had stayed awake the entire night, eyes focused on any movement, ears listening for any sound, beyond in the darkness

It had been a horrible night. Worse than the previous one. The rain, that had petered out while Lucifer interrogated them, had returned as a heavy freezing mist. The cold had left the ground hard and a layer of ice on the sentries, horses, tents and most of all on Dean, who, sitting still for hours on end, could hardly move come morning. The tepid strong beer in a flask that Sam had handed him at six did nothing to warm his numb fingers or stop the full body, bone shaking shivers that had overtaken him.

They had returned after hours more spent in the saddle, a vicious wind whipping the fresh, freezing sleet up into their faces the whole way. Dean's hands and face had been raw by the time they dismounted and trooped in to the council room. With the fire roaring, and plenty of hot food, they hadn't moved since.

At least Dean was warm now, although every muscle in his body ached, abused by lack of sleep, hours in the saddle and too long spent sitting still in the freezing temperatures.

On top of that, his hands were chafed, his thighs raw from riding in wet clothes, and his head ached. He had long since given up trying to focus his blurry vision.

It took a few moments for the fact that someone was calling his name to filter through his fuzzy and sleep deprived brain.

“Hmm?” he questioned, raising his eyes from where they had been fixed on the toe of his mud spattered boot.

“I asked if you have anything to share?” Bobby huffed in annoyance, comparatively fresh faced and bright eyed compared to Dean, which, given Bobby's normal look was really saying something. He felt like he'd gone five rounds with a werewolf.

“We've gone over the reports, and the overnights that have already come in,” Bobby stated flatly, unimpressed. “I got six extra patrols out, ya know, in case some of this went over your head. Everyone here has shared what they know, apart from you, the leader of our fearless band.”

Bobby's voice was dripping with, well, something. Dean was too tired to care any more. “Y'alright old man, I've been list'nin,” he slurred, “I got nothin' to add.

“I think those two do though,” he said, voice harder than he expected, as he waved a hand behind him.

He couldn't restrain the bitterness he felt at Castiel and Jimmy’s refusal to explain everything they knew. Information that could very well save, not only their own necks, but a whole camp full, a whole world full.

He heard shuffling behind him, where they were sitting on spare chairs against the wall of the room. Not a part of the council, but inextricably linked, so ordered to stay by Dean.

They'd scowled at him, Jimmy moreso, face screwed up and resentful—accusatory, more than anything.

Dean had wondered at that, but the exhaustion, even twelve hours previously, had been too much to spend more than a moment thinking on it.

“Boys?” Ellen asked, voice demanding. Only she could reduce two forty-one year old men to child-like status.

Silence.

“Speak up,” Bobby ordered. “If Dean there thinks you got somein' to add, you better add something.”

Dean didn't get up from his slumped position to look at Jimmy and Castiel. He appreciated Bobby's support, but he felt he had to soften his words a little.

Eyes closed and head dropped he addressed them, “Please, if you know anything that could save lives, tell us.”

He could _feel_ their gazes on the back of his neck, his hackles rose. There was a long pause.

“There's nothing,” Jimmy's muted voice sounded eventually.

Dean grunted, screwing his eyes up a moment.

“Fuck this,” he whispered, before pushing himself to his feet, his spine audibly cracking as he moved. “I'm done,” he stated, louder, before turning on his heel, giving a scathing look toward the twins. They sat in unmoving silence, two pairs of glacially hard blue eyes, too bright, too angry, glared at him as he passed.

-

Sam sighed heavily, worn out and despondent despite the days of rest they had all had.

The object of his concern and frustration was striding quickly across the weakly floodlit yard in front of Bobby's house.

It was late, he and Bobby were sitting on his porch steps, sharing a beer and trying to enjoy the down-time while it lasted. But Dean's tense and brooding figure attracted and held their attention.

Sam looked from Dean, to where his brother's gaze was fixed as he stamped on his way to the main entrance to the camp. There, sitting like he and Bobby were, perched on the steps of their dorm, were the twins; Jimmy and Castiel.

They sat close together, huddled against the cold, heads bent together as they spoke, mugs of beer in their hands. Their shoulder's looked tense, their faces grim. They either didn't see, or ignored Dean entirely.

Since the long and arduous meeting four days ago, Dean had been in a foul mood. Even after he had, supposedly, caught up on his sleep, he hadn't cracked one smile, hadn't lifted his head, barely talked. Just worked.

Castiel and Jimmy, not much happier, had tried their best to integrate themselves in the camp though. They had spent hours with some of the better hunters and fighters, putting their bodies through their paces, then helping Ellen in the kitchens. Jimmy had taken to Ash, helping with the power supply and the small amount of tech they had working. Castiel had disappeared into the woods, and according to Justin, had been taking turns on the towers, night and day, keeping watch, keeping them all safe.

Dean, though, had retreated completely.

Sam had barely spoken three words with him.

None of the women appeared to have spent the night with him, in fact, no one had even _seen_ Dean near his hut.

When he got food, he disappeared with it, and spent all his time doing rounds, and reading over paperwork, collecting information and riding out on Falcon, alone, often coming back so late as to earn a warning shout from the tower guards.

Sam was worried.

“Something needs to happen,” he voiced, a non sequitur to Bobby, who just grunted quizzically.

“Dean,” he explained. “He's just waiting isn't he? There’s been shit on Raphael or Lucifer since Lucifer—I dunno, did whatever he did to Castiel. Dean's just waiting for them to make a move, for—”

“He's waiting for it to be over,” Bobby interrupted, tonelessly, hopelessly. “I think he's reached the end.”

Bobby's voice cracked on the last word, so low and terribly sad.

Even before John, their dad, had gone off the rails, searching for the demon who had taken his mother, and later his wife too, Sam and Dean had looked up to Bobby as a pseudo-father, an uncle, who cared deeply for them. He had always been there for them, unconditionally, when the doubled expectations from a Hunter father and a Man Of Letters grandfather became simply too much.

Bobby saw them as the kids he never had a chance to have.

He treated them better than their own family had.

“We gotta find a way to win, and soon, son. Or Dean ain't gonna make the distance. He'll do somethin' stupid.” Bobby paused, watching Dean's retreating back in the darkness. “Soon, very soon.”

Sam nodded in agreement, gloom descending as he noted just how closely Bobby's thoughts aligned with his on the matter.

Dean was pulled too tightly, he had been fighting too long, and having a lead like the twins under his nose, two men who, either didn't have the answers, or who wouldn't crack, was, instead, cracking Dean.

He sipped his beer, watching the two men, still hunched close together, shrouded in blankets. He wondered at their closeness for a moment, thinking that three years of imprisonment seemed almost too little to support that level of intimacy. He shrugged to himself. With archangel's breathing down your neck, you made friends where you needed them, and fast, not to mention the innate closeness of identical twins, separated or not.

Sam stared a little longer. He had to admit, though, that he understood Dean's animosity toward them.

“What do you think we should do about Jimmy and Castiel?” Sam asked after a long silence.

Bobby sipped his beer slowly. “Do we gotta do anything about 'em?”

Sam ran a gloved hand through his hair briefly and hummed in response.

“You think they _do_ know anything?” Sam wasn't sure the men were hiding the answer to everything, like Dean seemed to think, but he was certain they were holding something back. Nonetheless, Dean's attitude wasn't helpful.

If they _were_ withholding information he could be more forgiving of Dean's reaction, but, that elusive answer Dean was looking for was just a hunch. Lucifer had clearly found _something_ in Castiel's head. Sam had assumed it was something to do with the vessel, with Castiel or Jimmy. Perhaps using the wrong bloodline, or something. Dean seemed to have taken their silence to heart, and decided that it was more—

And that, _that_ wasn't good for the camp, for Dean or for the twins.

It would be better to arrange to transfer them to another camp of their choice, than to rile up Dean, their _leader_ , on a permanent basis.

The dislike could easily grow to outright hatred given Dean's current mood, the amount of responsibility he had on his shoulders.

Sam sighed again. He missed his caring, but more carefree brother. The one who had looked out for him, but still knew how to smile.

“You know, I reckon they do, too,” Bobby answered Sam's question, cutting through his thoughts. “But I don't think it's anything we're gonna get outta them,” he mused, clearly thinking aloud. “And yelling 'n bitching ain't gonna draw 'em out.”

Sam looked over at them again. Jimmy, always wearing his torn jeans, was smiling sadly at something Castiel was saying as he shook his head slowly. They were too far to hear, but they clearly weren't happy. They looked tired and, somehow, lonely.

“I'm going to suggest they move in the morning,” he said, making a decision.

From the corner of his eye he saw Bobby turn his gaze to settle on him. He didn't return the look, but he knew Bobby's face would be calculating.

“Whether they know anything or not is irrelevant if they aren't going to tell us. And they've obviously somehow clashed with Dean. It's better they aren't here. We need Dean too much.” Sam finally swung his gaze to his old friend.

Bobby just grunted in answer and looked into his mug of beer. “We'll see kid, we'll see,” he said, pushing himself upright. “Let's see what tonight's overnights hold, eh?”

-

Jimmy's head ached. It wasn't helping that it was midday and he had already been at the shooting range for four hours, a gun repeatedly recoiling into his shoulder and going off in his ear. His shoulder blade still throbbed from the almost healed brand, his belly itched incessantly from the tattoo. At least he could be thankful that the minor burns on his foot were all but healed, only fresh pink skin marring the flesh.

His headache, though, he couldn't blame on any injury.

He and Cas had stayed up together, too late, drinking beers on the steps of their dorm in the cold, before retiring to their separate bunks in the shared room.

Their one night together in Dean's hut was a distant memory. And he mourned the loss.

He and Cas didn't know what to make of Dean any more, his evident animosity. It was clear he had picked up on the Devil's words, but— He was so different to the man he had been five days previously, cold, cruel, and implacable

They had discussed it, and Jimmy couldn't help but think that the man must know, must have been able to put two and two together— Especially after their less than subtle night on his couch _and_ Lucifer's words.

Dean had left early the morning they had gone to see the Devil, long before they had woken. They had actually woken curled up on opposite sides of his couch, despite falling asleep wrapped up in each other. They had talked at length about whether Dean really _knew._ Perhaps he had slept through their noise, and seen them only sleeping on the same bed, not _together._ They had done their best to clean the evidence of their activities too, wiping off the dried come from their clothes in Dean's empty hut, washing themselves clean too, then spot cleaning his blankets before folding them, tidying the room and leaving before the sun had even risen properly.

And Dean was _so_ angry with them. But, there was no way that they could just say it out loud—the one thing that might actually help.

Maybe if Dean had indicated that he knew about them—but he hadn't.

On their ride up to scout out Lucifer's movements Dean had been perfectly friendly, if aloof, riding ahead at all times. He hadn't spoken to them the evening they'd spent camped, but he hadn't spoken to anyone very much.

The evening had been miserable, cold, uneventful and dull. There hadn't even been many specters to see, only one or two gathering at Dean's side, clearly invisible to everyone but him and Castiel. They hadn't been able to discuss it, though, before retiring to their separate tents for the night.

After they had returned, after that awful long meeting, he and Castiel had stolen a few moments to discuss the specters, their future, the Devil _and_ Dean. They were certain that if he _had_ found out, then he wasn't disgusted— It gave them a small portion of hope.

But since the moment Lucifer had torn into Castiel's mind and stated his revulsion with—

Well, Dean had been nothing short of furious with them, convinced they were hiding things.

Which, of course, they were.

Jimmy sighed as he lowered his gun, glaring at the target at the far end of the range. Almost everyone in the camp had been accepting and kind, talking with them and including them. He and Castiel had decided to find activities to keep themselves busy, and away from Dean and his sour looks. Choosing separate activities to fill their time had been a natural choice for them, despite everyone else's expectation that 'as twins' they would want to be together.

They did want to be together, of course, but not as twins. Being out in public, with Castiel constantly there, was proving more difficult than he had imagined.

They couldn't touch or hold hands, there was no kissing or even long looks. He loved the man's mind and generally forgot about their matching faces, but no one else would see what they saw, that was obvious.

Apart from possibly Dean. He had, since that first day, treated them as completely separate people.

Everyone else saw two halves of a whole.

Jimmy and Castiel saw themselves as two wholes making something bigger. Better.

Jim glowered once more at the target and decided he had had enough for the day. He, turned, hefting the gun, just as a clanging bell sounded, indicating lunch was available for those who wanted it.

He put his gun away, and smiled, looking forward to being able to sit with Cas for half an hour or so, before they went back to their chosen activities.

Cas was going to be working on his hand-to-hand combat with one of the bar brawling ex-bikers in the camp, while Jimmy was going to be working with Ash, before going running with Jo, Ellen's daughter. He and Cas would both be hot, sticky and sweaty by the evening meal. Cas would be beautiful, trying to catch his breath—

He raised his eyes to heaven, trying to suppress the thoughts. They couldn't even take advantage of sneaking off to a shower together, the majority of the camp having to make use of wide communal showers which were constantly in use. He missed the feel of Cas' thighs wrapped about his hips, he missed his taste, his kisses. He didn't want to have to wait for Spring to be able to sneak off into the woods together without risking hypothermia.

He strolled slowly through the various yards between huts and more permanent looking buildings, the mud raw and gloopy where it had thawed in all the rain. The day was clear though, which had given him the chance to practice with a gun, for which he was grateful. The cold sun and fresh air had built him an appetite.

“Jimmy—” Cas' voice sounded from within the full room, men, women and children all queuing noisily to get a portion of the stew from the large pan sitting over the banked fire.

Jim squeezed between two broad men who had probably been working out in the fields going by their mud heavy pants. He greeted Cas with a warm smile, feeling something warm settle in his chest at the sight of his lover. “Hey.”

Cas smiled back, his eyes flicking over Jimmy from head to toe, resting on his cheek, where he licked his thumb and wiped something from his face. “Oil,” he stated, wiping the gun residue on his jeans.

“Has Sam come to talk with you today?” Cas asked, out of the blue, as they gave up hunting for a table to sit at inside, and placed themselves, alone, on the dormitory steps, like they had the night before.

Jimmy shook his head and made a noise of dissent as he chewed his hot mouthful of rabbit and root vegetable stew.

Castiel hummed in thought before he swallowed and spoke. “He came to me in the towers this morning. Offered to arrange for us to move to another friendly camp, if we want to leave. Told us they have no right to keep us here. He did try to say that we were welcome to stay if we wanted—”

Jimmy frowned as Cas poked at a bit of potato in the bowl with his spoon.

“He didn't say anything, but I have to assume it's because of Dean's attitude toward us, Jim. I wonder if he’s said he doesn't want us here any more. What if—”

“Cas—” Jimmy cut him off, making the man look up from his meal and make eye contact. “Look— As unhappy it makes me to say this, especially after I convinced you to think about the idea of all three of us, maybe he is just a—an asshole.” He huffed a laugh at his own crude language, “I don't think it's intentional, or that he’s a bad person, but the responsibilities he has—I think they may have got to him. Maybe we— _I_ misread his regard for us.”

He hung his head, suddenly sure that Dean had indeed seen or heard them when they were together in his lounge, and he had only held back on his disgust while he needed to. The moment that they had proven no longer useful, Dean had turned cold. “Maybe we _should_ go—” He finally said, quietly.

Castiel leaned into him, bumping their shoulders together, the most contact they could risk out in the open, as he nodded slowly, sadness etched on his face. “Maybe we should. I'll talk to Sa—”

“Jim. Cas. Get your shit together. We're moving out in an hour.”

Castiel and Jimmy both recoiled and looked up into the stern and emotionless face of Dean Winchester.

He looked tired with heavy dark rings under his bloodshot eyes. His clothing was a mess, spattered in mud, Jimmy could see a smear of blood in his loosely curled palm.

And then he was gone. Not bothering to await their response, clearly not used to being disobeyed. They didn't even have time to draw breath to question his order, before he was away, marching toward Bobby's house.

“I guess that conversation with Sam will have to wait,” Castiel said, sounding a little surprised.

“We don't have to—” Jim started, but cut himself off, knowing it was a lie. They did have to go. They were a part of this, whether they liked it or not. If Dean, the leader of Camp Salvage, thought they ought to be on a mission, then there was probably good cause.

Castiel threw his head back, downing the last of the stew straight from the bowl, “We better get our shit together then,” he said with false enthusiasm, and a rueful smile. “Come on beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes and mouth melting into a true smile as he held out his hand to help Jimmy to his feet.

He swallowed the last of his own meal and accepted the help, grabbing his wrist, and walking with him to return their bowls to the canteen.

-

“I fucking hate horses,” Castiel groused under his breath, clearly wincing as he landed hard in the saddle again. Jimmy grunted in agreement, his own upbringing as woefully short on horse riding as Castiel's. His own ass, thighs and back were in just as much pain, rubbed raw, and hands raised in blisters from holding the reins. At least he had worked out why Dean's hand had been bleeding, and why he had been so filthy.

They didn't know where they were going, but the path was a mire of thick mud. With twists and turns through scrub land and bushes that had sprung up since Lucifer had risen, the path dropped down a steep hill.

They were all spattered in mud, tired and grumpy, cold and wet. The track seemed never ending.

Even the handful of specters that he and Cas pointed out to each other, looked miserable as they watched Dean pass.

Their team had just come out from a bottle neck and Cas was able to ride by Jimmy’s side once again on their borrowed horses. Cas was on a large piebald thing, and Jimmy sat on a gray of some sort. The colours of the beasts was where their knowledge ended.

“I don't think it likes you very much either, Cas,” Jim said, trying to lighten the mood a little, a grin twitching the corners of his mouth.

They had ridden hard until hitting this awful track, and had been navigating the slippery route for over two hours already. The sun was setting, they didn't have long until they would have to stop for the night, but Jimmy couldn't see a resting place anywhere along the track, not for ten men and beasts.

He could see the back of Dean's head, bobbing along at the front of the column, looking neither left or right as he rode, seemingly at ease.

“Does _anyone_ know where we're going?” Jim questioned, wondering at the blind faith they all seemed to have in the man at the front, who appeared to be a natural on his great gray horse.

Castiel shrugged, “Who knows? They're not exactly lining up to chat with me about this sort of thing,” he finished, sounding bitter.

Jimmy grunted. “Me neither.”

“They're loyal, at least you can say that.” Jimmy looked over at his lover, who was glowering, his eyes fixed on that light brown head of hair at the front of the line.

“I'm so sorry I put that thought in your head Cas.” He apologized, knowing it wouldn't help, wouldn't change anything. He had got his partner's hopes up, letting him know it was okay with him if he liked someone else, planting the seed that maybe a relationship could still be had, all three of them, only to watch the thoughts crash and crumble as Dean turned cold and filled with hate.

-

Dean patted Falcon's neck as the animal slipped on a stone hidden under the mud of the path, tossing his head in fear until he found his footing once again and plodded on. The animal was tired, Dean could feel it in the way he was moving, and he didn't blame him.

Dean had been on the horse's back almost more than he had been in the camp the past few days, riding between their nearest allies and running lone patrols. All strictly against the rules he himself had set in place to protect the members of Camp Salvage.

Finally, he spied the cleared ground that he knew was along this path, perfect for ten people to bed down for the night. Just enough space for the tents, the horses and a fire to heat food. Well protected enough at their backs to be defended from croats, and some cleverly hidden, carved warding against angels, demons and anything else that couldn't pass the runes and sigils Sam and Bobby had managed to put together. They wouldn't even really need look-outs, if it wasn't for the possibility of croats. He'd sit for the first part of the night with one of the hunters, and set two others to watch from two onwards, sitting hidden along the path, watching up and down the hill. Nothing could make it down the rocks to their back. Whether thanks to Lucifer or natural causes no one knew, but Newton Hills was now a scarred and treacherous place.

He raised his arm, letting those behind him know that they were halting, and winced in pain as the burst blisters across his palm protested. He rode past the spot a little and turned Falcon around to block the road and funnel his men into the rest spot.

First Sam, then Jo, Jackson, a couple of trusted hunters, followed up by Castiel and Jimmy.

The brothers looked tired and pissed off, and he averted his eyes as they passed him. As they rode from the track onto the flat ground of the rest spot Dean looked back up, unable to pull his eyes away after so long deprived of them. He frowned as they took a look around, strangely seeming a little surprised before they inelegantly, and stiffly, swung their legs over their horses and dropped to the ground. They led them behind the others, following them to the stunted tree where the animals were being tied.

Dean stayed astride Falcon, watching as Castiel helpfully pulled the damp straw from one of the horses backs and laid it out as feed, Jimmy going to help the others set up tents and the fire.

“You want some dinner boy?” he asked the silent and patient horse. “Yeah, me too.”

Finally, he slid from his back and lead the tired creature up to the others where he tucked into the food without a moment's hesitation. From Falcon's back he pulled his share of the provisions and his tightly rolled up tent and sleeping bag. They had decided to travel light, and the men were having to bunk up, just leaving him and Jo with their own small tents. They could have shared, Jo being like a little sister to him, but there had to be some perks to leading the camp.

He chucked the package of wrapped food to Jo who already had the fire expertly lit, even on the damp ground, and a pan warming over the small red flames.

He smiled as he watched Cas and Jimmy awkwardly try to build their shared tent, his thoughts skittering from innocent amusement to something that had his muscles twitching in anticipation, until, that is, somehow sensing his gaze, they looked up.

He found himself staring right into their implacable blue eyes, and felt a surge of the betrayal that had been weighing on him constantly since that meeting after they had escaped Lucifer. That feeling of knowing they were hiding information from him, of hindering him from saving their lives. All of their lives.

He scowled and looked away, lumping his own tent off his shoulder and unzipping the case. He was bone-achingly tired, having had, on average, three hours sleep a night since Jimmy and Cas had appeared on the scene, not that he could blame them for that.

Well, maybe some of it.

“Who's got the firewood?” Jo called, cutting through his annoyingly steamy thoughts, above the din of everyone setting camp.

Dean couldn't remember, but told Jo he would go find it. They had packed up in a hurry. The lead had come in so fast, his return to camp to share the news with Ellen, Bobby, Sam and the others, then his orders to pack and be on horseback within the hour; supplies had simply been slung over whichever horse had space.

He dumped his tent on the damp ground by the fire and stamped over to the horses, quickly discovering the wrapped bulk of dry firewood still hitched to a horse's back.

He gently untied the package, soothing the horse's neck, before returning to the fire.

“Whoever the fuck has been neglecting their horse, you're on latrine duty when we get back. Go and rub her down, and sort _all_ their water. I don't want our means of transport and escape being left uncared for you fucker!”

He yelled to the small group, angry. A shame faced, burly biker, pushed up from the floor where he'd been pegging his tent down, mumbling apologies.

They all knew how important the horses were, they couldn't leave them with loads strapped to their backs. He nodded at the man, Alex, as he passed. The man understood it wasn't personal, but it had to be done and dealt with. It was a lesson they couldn't forget.

Dean paused to watch his team, his brother straightening from a crouch by Jackson, the medic, to walk over.

“Hey, so some of them are asking what's up. You dragging them all out here without an explanation,” Sam said quietly, as he stopped next to Dean.

Dean huffed a sigh and stooped to pick up his tent again. He glared into the flames, into the pan of their evening’s rations heating slowly.

“Tell 'em I'll explain over dinner.” Sam nodded, throwing a scowl at the twins, before walking toward his tent.

Dean frowned, but turned back to the spot he had chosen for his tent, away from everyone, and discovered that Jo, no longer at the fire, had her own tent almost up in the space. “You dirty little—” he mumbled under his breath and looked for another spot. It would be just his luck to end up without anywhere, or—slap bang next to Jimmy and Castiel.

“Shit,” he spat vehemently, stamping over to the only empty spot within the warding, squashed between the twin's tent and the horses. He wondered if Castiel and Jimmy had picked the spot intentionally, planning on making use of their time, hoping that no one would want to set up next to the loud and stinking horses.

“Tough luck,” he grunted to himself as he pulled the well-used tent from it's bag and began popping the supports into the correct places.

He completely ignored Jim and Cas as they finished up, and wandered over to the fire to stir the contents of the pot and stoke the flames, although his eyes might have lingered on them as they walked.

 _What are you doing Dean?_ he wondered to himself as he rolled his sleeping bag out inside the small space. _Not only have you never slept with a man, or even frickin' kissed one, but now you want two of them? Twins? Twins that are willing to let everyone die for their secrets?_ “Jesus fucking Christ, what am I doing?”

He sat still for two minutes, counting his breaths in and out before pushing back out of the tent into the fire lit dark of the night.

It was freezing, but he was glad of the clear sky. The last camping session had been even more awful, despite everyone getting their own tents, and a pack horse or two to help carry supplies. The incessant rain had made everything damp and cold and chafe like like nothing else could.

He walked to the fireside, accepting his tin pot of stew and sitting next to Sam.

Around the fire he found eight pairs of unblinking, interested eyes focused on him, well, six, since every time he looked up, Castiel and Jimmy were staring at their knees. Sam was on sentry duty while they ate.

“Okay, thanks for coming out here with me on such short notice.” He looked around the circle once again, thinking to keep this short and sweet, no need to explain about his days of riding around woods and through mud-filled fields, talking with leaders and at outposts, and individuals holed up, like Rufus, Bobby's friend, in huts hidden in woods.

He had eventually been given a lead by a neighbouring group, reasonably close to where they were camped now, the route well worn between the two bases. They traded frequently, and their leaders were good people. They relied on the military-style might of the Savages, their beer too, and in turn offered far more meat to Dean's camp than they could provide for themselves.

But, from this point in their journey, the path would take a different route.

“I got a lead. There's a group of Silent Croats on a farm another day's ride from here. We're going to go and try and capture them, find out why they're here. Find out what Raphael is up to.”

Silent Croats. That had been the name given to the virus victims that Raphael had got his hands on, had placed the shredded parts of an angel's Grace into.

Sightings of regular croats had become fewer and fewer over the past couple of days, proving that Raphael was operating locally, and with enthusiasm.

It filled Dean with fear. The moment someone had mentioned the report, he had jumped on the information. He had decided that a small team would have to be enough. The needed to move fast. Even with only ten men, they were well armed, decked out as they all were with angel warding and holy oil, on top of everything else.

Weighed down by it in fact.

The only thing he couldn't predict was how strong these new creatures were, how angelic.

He was scared he was going to lose his whole team, his brother, his friends, Castiel and Jimmy, too.

-

Shortly after their dinner, Dean and Alex, who had volunteered after his earlier fuck up in order to appease Dean, prepared themselves for four hours of sentry duty. They loaded their guns, grabbed their flares, and piled on what layers they had with them.

It was a cold night.

As he emerged from his tent, bundled up and uncomfortable, he only found four people sitting around the fire. Sam, eating his stew, and Jo, talking quietly together, a hunter and Jackson listening in. Two of the men were on duty, waiting to be relieved. Alex had either already gone to take over, or was still in his tent getting ready.

Castiel and Jimmy were nowhere to be seen.

He turned and looked at the bright blue tent, set up right next his, and swallowed hard, glad, and a little mournful, that he wasn't going to be near it for hours.

He grunted at himself in irritation, and stumbled over to his position, telling the incumbent to go and leave him his cold and lonely rock to sit on.

He shivered as he sat, knowing it would be a long, cold, four hours, staring up the path they had come along, occasionally glancing down the route into the sharply dropping rocky, tree covered land the other side, or behind and above him.

Everything was quiet.

-

By his reckoning, Dean figured it had only been about ninety minutes when his head snapped up, alerted by a noise.

The quiet, whistled riff of Smoke On The Water calmed him instantly, sinking back onto the rock from his half couch, removing his finger from the trigger of his gun.

Sam was approaching

“What you doin' up?” he asked, not unkindly, as Sam came to a stop next to him. He didn't bother to look up, keeping his eyes fixed on the relentless darkness.

Sam grunted. “Couldn't sleep, I'll let you get some shut eye.”

Dean did look up then, craning his neck to eye his brother. “You sure? It'll be, what, six hours?”

Sam hummed agreement, “Yeah, it's cool. Just a bit—I dunno, wired I guess.”

Dean swung his gaze back on the path, but a nagging flicker of worry hit him. Sam had been quiet lately. Since they had discovered Raphael and the Silent Croats, and Castiel and Jimmy had joined the Savages, Sam had been off. He had been snippy, and Dean had caught more than one scowl thrown in the direction of their two newest recruits.

He decided to let it go, though. He couldn’t spare time to babysit his brother.

Their conversation was terse, but not unfeeling. They didn't need flowery words to comprehend each other. Yawning, Dean agreed, not ungratefully, and stumped off toward his tent after ensuring Sam was fully armed.

He crawled silently inside his tent, the fabric so well used it didn't even rustle when he closed the flap. On missions like these, where rest mattered and everyone was attuned to listen for demons or croats, or worse, making no noise when traversing the camp at night was a skill you learned fast.

He rolled noiselessly onto the already laid out sleeping bag, pulling the soft material over himself without shedding even his shoes.

He breathed out slowly, letting his shoulders relax, enjoying the extra warmth of the enclosed space. He hated camping, but it beat sleeping out in the open air. He closed his eyes and listened to the horses shuffling and snorting close by, the low animal noises beginning to lull his tired body to sleep.

A low, dark chuckle however, had him frozen in place, his heart rate instantly ramped right up, and his eyes springing open.

Holding his breath, he waited, wondering if he had imagined the noise that already had his cock hardening between his legs.

He had almost started to relax again, when, over the shifting sounds of the horses, he heard whispering and a low moan, like syrup, like velvet.

The sounds were only just on the edge of hearing, the horses swallowing most noises. No one else, unless they lay, silently, in their own tent, less than two feet away, would have been able to hear. But, Dean, lying on the cold, hard ground, only two thin sheets of waterproof fabric separating them, could hear perfectly.

He swallowed hard, his ears listening out for any other sound, even as he desperately tried to close his mind. He shouldn't be listening. It was private. And he was still angry—

He mouthed the word 'fuck' the moment he heard what was obviously a zipper being pulled down slowly, another low groan cutting straight into his brain.

Dean desperately wanted to them to stop. He wanted to run or cover his ears. He also, almost reflexively, wanted to get up and find out whether it was Castiel or Jimmy making those agonizingly slow and beautiful deep noises of pleasure.

He bit his lip as his dick twitched at the thought.

He scowled. It was an impossibility. He was still pissed at them for starters, let alone the fact that he doubted his welcome with the, obviously happy couple. Why would they want the unfeeling bastard that led the Camp, too busy even for his own brother half the time, when they had each other?

He rolled onto his stomach and rested his head on his arms as silence reigned again.

Muscle by muscle, he began to relax again as no new noises came. He thought that maybe he had mistaken the sounds for something more innocent.

Until, that is, he caught a rustling and a gasp, followed by increasingly quick and wet noises, flesh on flesh, or—he squeezed his eyes closed at the thought—mouth on flesh.

A groan, bitten off half way through, and a muffled moan in response left Dean certain about what he had heard.

“Ji— Jimmy” was breathed out in a huff, so close to silence, except Dean's head must have been lying two feet from Castiel's, able to hear each stuttered breath, each wet noise as Jimmy lifted up and each muffled moan as he slid his mouth back down on Castiel's cock.

 _Oh fuck,_ Dean mouthed again. His stomach muscles fluttered in excitement, arousal. Praying he could remain completely silent, he rolled his spine to bring his rock hard erection into contact with the ground.

He bit off a gasp, surprised at how hard he really was. Picturing Jimmy's mouth wrapped around Cas' erection, slip sliding up and down the length, he began using the hard ground to rub himself against. He moved slowly, carefully, in case the rustling of his sleeping bag tipped Castiel and Jimmy off about his presence.

Dean felt the tug in his gut as his cock hardened even more in want as he heard the careful shuffling on the other side of the tent walls as, presumably, clothing was pulled off.

A gasp and a sigh. “You're beautiful,” was whispered, low and reverent, which had Dean wishing desperately to be on the receiving end of words like that.

Dean actually heard as Jimmy sank his mouth back onto Cas—the wet sound of saliva and lips meeting fevered flesh.

Dean opened his eyes as a hiss sounded, followed by a slightly wounded noise.“Sl— _Slow_ Jimmy. That fucking angel tightened everything right back up again.”

Dean snapped his hips hard into the ground at that, clenching his jaw at the friction inside his jeans. He could picture Jimmy raising up, his eyes glinting dangerously as he chuckled around Cas' cock, then pulled off. “Excellent.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and smiled at their banter, their comfort in each other. He longed for that, for them. He wanted their touch and their smiles, not the inside of his sleeping bag and the miserable, lonely, cold hard ground.

As he listened to the wet noises, the gasps and almost purr-like groans that bubbled out despite their best efforts, he reached a hand down, finally, to his crotch.

He palmed himself, feeling guilty, again, and wrong, but so, _so_ turned on. Easily, he slipped his hand inside of his pants, ignoring the zipper, and wrapped his chilled fingers around his solid and heated erection, the tip leaving a wet smear of pre-come across his palm.

The sting of sensation, too much, too cold, and completely needed, had him gasping out loud.

A pause in the noises made him freeze up, terrified that they had heard him jerking off to their pleasure.

It suddenly occurred to him that they were probably just as terrified of discovery as he was. He had all but forgotten they were brothers, twins even, but he belatedly realized that no one else would probably be willing to overlook such a thing.

He held still, breath caught in his throat, fingers gripping his twitching cock. He raised an eyebrow despite the circumstances, unsurprised that, even through the fledgling fear in his gut, he remained painfully hard.

“Animal?” he heard one of them ask, the quietness of their voices disguising their individual tones amongst the horse's shuffling.

Silence, a pause, then a hummed agreement and an amused, “I'm done anyway, you're ready. Lie on your front.” The words were whispered, but Dean could hear the growl of desire in Jimmy's slightly higher voice, the smoothness of his speech lost in his arousal.

Dean slowly stroked up and down his cock, briefly pausing to undo the button and shimmy them down, along with his boxer shorts, allowing his cock to spring free.

He _just_ bit back the moan at the dual sensation of freezing air hitting his heated skin and the sudden release of pressure. He tightened his hold, swiping his thumb over the wet tip and pumping harder, faster.

He rolled silently onto his side, panting, as he listened to Castiel and Jimmy shuffle quietly together.

His breath hitched, and he bit his hand as one of the men let out a pleasured breath, followed almost immediately by a long, low, gloriously erotic moan.

“Fu—ck! He did re-virgin you, didn't he?” laughed Jimmy around a huffed out moan. The sounds were still only just on the edge of hearing, almost too quiet for Dean to pick up, especially over the subtle noises of him pumping his own dick, and his pointlessly thrusting hips.

A growled “Fuck off and fuck me,” had Dean's spine arching, tears leaking from his eyes as he fought off orgasm.

All that filled the night after that was breathing, heavy and fast, grunts in time with the quick slap of flesh, and the wet noises following Castiel’s bitten of moans.

Dean was rocking his hips, thrusting his cock into the tunnel of his hand, the way smoothed with the sheer amount of pre come his cock was leaking—listening to Jimmy fuck hard and fast into Castiel was the hottest thing since—since he'd watched him fuck Castiel's unseen face.

He felt the urgent need in his gut, and in his heart, to join them, to let himself be known, to show them what they did to him. But he couldn't. Wouldn't. So he synced his thrusts, the silent squeezes of his thumb, imagining Castiel's face, flushed and wild, his body writhing as Jimmy hammered into him, his pelvis hitting Castiel's ass hard with each thrust.

Dean felt that familiar white-hot burn in his gut, like an avalanche about to fall. He heard Jimmy's breath hitch, the slap of flesh cease and Castiel’s whine—and, Dean contorted, head flung back, mouth open in a silent scream, his hand gripping hard around his dick as he finally came, long and hard.

Bonelessly he fell back onto his belly, revelling in the wet patch he had created, still lazily rolling into his hand as he heard Castiel whimper; a thump, a giggle and then the beautiful, sweet sound of kissing.

Dean lost track after that, content to milk his own cock and catch his breath slowly as he wondered what he had done to deserve such sweet torture.


	11. Chapter 11

“Get everyone ready,” Dean told Sam as he walked ahead, rounding the bend and finding the main gateway and brick wall that surrounded the farmhouse. 

Behind him, still hidden in the trees, he was trusting Sam to get their small team kitted out with guns, knives, holy oil and a whole host of other weaponry, both supernatural in origin and mundane.

He walked slowly forward through the overgrown tree line of the long track until he met the high wall. Ducking down low, in case anyone had their sights trained at head height, he peered around the, thankfully open, iron gate. Through the fancy scrolled metal he could see the farm; an imposing building, overhung by leafless trees. 

He had been worried that it would be deserted, meaning he’d been sent on a wild goose chase, or that the numbers had been hugely underestimated, leaving them vulnerable to simply being overrun. 

For once, though, it looked as if things were going in his favor.

Across the yard, a scattering of bones punctuating the ground, were two ragged and blood covered people, clearly croats, given their appearance. Their countenance, on the other hand, screamed something else, the calmness usually associated with angels.

Silent Croats.

His lead had been good.

The Grace-filled virus victims stood quietly, their stance at the ready, alert as they watched the yard. Dean ducked back out of sight. They had been unarmed, although that meant nothing. Croats and angels, demons too, were all well known for fighting without the need for weaponry.

There was no way to tell how many more of them were waiting. The report had numbered them at five, but the two standing ready in the yard were guarding something. They were sentries. That left Dean worried. But he also felt out of options, desperate to follow this lead to it's end to capture themselves a true informant. 

Even though he had run the information past the council before leaving on this mission, he was having serious doubts about the reliability of his tip. Now that he was here, in a tiny farmstead, hidden well out of the way; even before the apocalypse, he found himself asking how his informant discovered five croats waiting so quietly? He took a deep breath and risked another peek around the gatepost. He figured the best option was to take these two out with headshots, and hope for the best with the others, either drawing them out, or going in, SWAT team style. They didn't have enough men to surround the buildings.

But they had to try and capture at least one of the Silent Croats in order to interrogate them. He needed to discover what Raphael was truly up to.

He had decided days before that if Castiel and Jimmy weren't going to share their information with him, he would discover the truth himself, alone. 

He blinked, banishing thoughts of Castiel and Jimmy, just as he had been doing since waking up at dawn, in a mess of his own dried come, dick out and full of shame.

There wasn't time to be distracted.

He had a croat to capture and interrogate.

He retreated back around the corner, and crept back through the ragged trees to his team. He was on edge now, even more so than he had been since Lucifer's appearance in front of them. He was thrumming with tension. It all seemed a little too easy, too straightforward.

“Okay,” he began, gathering himself. “Jo. Sammy? I'm going to want you two to snipe and take out the guards. Once they're down— It's just going to be a free for all. Jimmy? Cas? You two are here because you're a part of this, whether you like it or not. Stay back. You’re not trained well enough, I do not want you dead. You're in the rear as last ditch backup. Got me?” He fixed them with a stare, willing them to not only understand but to obey. They nodded, but Dean couldn't tell whether they understood just how serious this was going to get, how serious he was. “After the guards are taken out I don't know how it's going to go. I want prisoners you hear me? I don't care how you incapacitate them, okay? But I want at least one still kicking.”

He glared around the half circle, making eye contact with each man and woman, including Jimmy and Castiel. 

“Come on,” he finally said, feeling they were about as ready as they could be. He couldn't help the thread of fatalism running down his spine, leaving him cold and worried.

Beyond the gate posts, there was no cover. Just open ground. Once the guards were down, he and his team would be running for it, toward the house. It was a vulnerable move, and depending on how the croats were set up, they would have to try and get inside quickly. Dean didn’t know if these croats could wield a gun, but he wasn’t willing to bet that they couldn’t. He wanted to get them all inside before there was a possibility of getting shot from the upper windows. They needed to move fast in order to find and capture their quarry.

The wall surrounding the house was high, channelling their approach through the gate. Climbing would make them a target as they struggled to scale the wall, weighed down as they were by weaponry. 

They had no other option.

Sam and Jo, hefting their guns, walked quietly up to the gate posts. Jo crouched low and Sam stood above her, their height difference perfect for the situation. Dean turned to check his team, all ready to run, Jim and Cas at the back. Every one of them had a gun in one hand, a large blade in the other, and a grim expression on their face.

Dean turned back to Sam and Jo just in time to see them poised, guns just nudging around the wall. They both let out a breath simultaneously and squeezed their triggers.

There was a pause, lasting the length of a breath. Silence. Then Sam was already moving as his words reported, “They're down.”

Dean began sprinting as Jo scrambled to her feet, joining their whole team's mad dash for cover. He expected shots any second, or the rabid growl of a virus-stricken throat calling out for their flesh—

But nothing came from above.

Quietly, with no shots, no screams, six blank faced, upright, blood and dirt covered Silent Croats walked abreast from behind the house. They were quiet, unarmed, and extremely dangerous.

Dean snarled as, mid stride, he brought up his knife in a wide arc, the wickedly sharp edge slicing clean through the creature's neck, muscle, sinew and bone giving easily as he put all his brute strength behind the blow.

With a yell he spun to take on the next croat—but, he deflated, everything was in hand. Sam had one living, writhing on the floor, another was dead, and the others weren't far off. Castiel and Jimmy were standing poised to one side, blades at the ready. Dean huffed out a breath and went to check out the two guards. Only a true head shot or decapitation would kill one. 

“Fuckin' angel juice,” he grunted as he found one rising to his elbows, face placid despite the hole taking out half of his neck.

Dean raised his blade, messily taking off his head in a spray of blood, nicking the concrete patio with the tip of his knife. The force of his blow sent a ringing through his arm and made the blade sing.

A shout went up, making him spin on the spot, drops of blood arcing out from his blade where it dangled in his hand.

The scene before him had the blood running cold in his veins.

Staring transfixed, stood blood spattered human and lax faced croat; their heads all turned alike. He saw Sam standing stock still, panting, with the still-living croat bound at his feet. Dean followed his gaze, where, just like all the others, his attention was fixed on Jimmy and Castiel.

Jimmy, Castiel and a third person. A stranger.

Dean started running without conscious thought,  _It'satrapit'satrapit'satrap_ screaming on repeat in the emptiness of his head, as his eyes stayed glued on the nauseas, frozen features of the two men.

Dean wheezed as, instead of landing his next step, of raising his bloody knife, he felt his body plucked from his forward momentum, stopping so abruptly he felt as if his lungs had been left two feet behind him. He would have expected whiplash if it didn’t feel like his whole body was being crushed, like a huge fist was slowly squeezing him, bones first.

The stranger slowly turned to appraise him, a leering grin stretching her wide lips. Abstractly, he thought she would have been pretty, in a stern kind of way. Radiant black skin, straightened hair, perfectly sculpted eyebrows and shining eyes— Except, half of her skin appeared to have been burned away, her lips stretched _too_ wide, one eye was merely pulp; leaking down her cheek, her hair was falling out in bloody clumps. 

He would have recoiled, except her hold on him was complete.

“I don't think so, mud monkey,” she stated, voice a rough rasp, full of scathing disgust. With a smirk, she condescendingly ordered him to “stay.”

Appearing to forget Dean, she turned her attention to focus entirely on Castiel. Neither he nor Jimmy appeared to be able to move either— No one could. Dean's throat constricted and acid rose as he saw Castiel's face, a frozen, terrified rictus.

It was then that understanding dawned.

“Raphael,” he hissed between his teeth. The archangel chuckled, a sick sound, but otherwise continued to ignore him

“Now. Why couldn't I find you, hmm?” she asked Cas, looking deep into his watering eyes. 

Dean, instinctively trying to leap to his aid, almost managed to break free from her hold when she raised an arm and placed her fingertips, bloody bone poking through at the ends, to Cas' forehead. 

“Cas!” His yell joined Jimmy's as he pushed against her binding. 

Castiel's eyes rolled back in his head and he screamed in agony, the sound torn from him, watery and weak.

Dean swallowed air as Castiel jerked in his bonds, mouth wide and silent. A red light, flickering on the edge of the visible spectrum, seemed to surround Cas, focusing on the backs of his arms, shooting out like solar flares as they forced his skin to expel the ink from his tattoo and liquify his brand into obscurity.

Dean forced his eyes shut. He had seen this before, but never so violently, never without physically touching the warding, never without a palm placed to the skin.

Never when he would have gladly taken the victim's place.

“Warding. Really? Against me?” Raphael asked, looking back to Dean who was trembling with rage, hurt, fear, where he was held. “You see,” and she returned to gaze almost raptly at Castiel, hand now wrapped almost gently about his throat, “It took less than a week to get you back. A few simple traps laid, some matching trails dropped, and I could sit back and wait for your return.”

Dean couldn't see her features, but Castiel's attempted recoil told him that she had smiled that ghastly smile once more, skin rotting on her skull.

She looked briefly at Jimmy, his expression one of disgust. “I'm so sorry Michael,” Raphael said quietly, broken, before snapping to look, once more, at Cas.

“You're mine.” Her voice dropped, became harder. Colder. Darker. “You said yes.”

Dean gasped, tears in his eyes and failure in his heart as bright blue-white light flowed from her eyes and mouth, a swirling, sickening plume of Grace, too bright, too painful, but he couldn't look away.

Dean felt his body released, his chest unclench, just in time for the Grace to wind into Castiel's mouth, pitching his body back, spine arched, arms flung wide.

The light died in an instant.

Cas recovered his footing, contorted his mouth into a grin that was not his own and vanished. 

All before the rotting and hollow corpse of Raphael's temporary vessel had even hit the ground.

“Cas!” Jimmy screamed at the same time as Dean began cursing at length, loudly and filled with guilt.

It was his fault.

He watched, helpless, as Jim fell to his knees, tears falling silently down his now blankly staring face.

They made eye contact slowly, Jimmy silently begging for the return of the man he loved, and Dean pushing out his apologies, for being angry at them, for dragging them here, for letting Cas be taken. He realized, belatedly, that Jimmy must love Cas, must be _in_ love with him.

They continued to look into each other's eyes, the _please,_ and the _I'm sorry,_ silently traded.

A scream rent the air, snatching away the stillness, their eye contact, their mourning.

Dean flinched and looked around suddenly, the still living Silent Croats were moving again. And they were fighting. One of his hunters, Tory, was struggling on the too-bloody ground under a croat, Sam was trying to behead the one he had held captive and Jo was struggling against a heavy set man almost twice her size.

But that wasn't all.

From the gateway, from around the side of the house, even flowing over the walls, came more and more Silent Croats, some old and filthy, some newly created, infected and filled with angel Grace.

And they were killing his men.

He screamed in rage and ran towards Jimmy, blade already swinging to take out the croat who was swarming toward the man, now glued with terror where he knelt on the ground, tears dry on his face.

Without a second thought, he heaved Jim to his feet and darted to the side, where he slashed deep into the croat's chest, ducking his head behind his arm just in time to miss the blood hitting him in the face. 

A gunshot sounded, dropping the croat, allowing Jimmy to step forward, mouth pulled wide in a snarl and hack the thing’s head off, too long and too messy, but entirely appropriate. 

“Good job,” he huffed before spinning and attacking the four croats that had stalked up behind them, placid faced and terrifying. 

He had already lost track of all his men apart from Jimmy, who stayed close by, finishing off anything he maimed. 

But there were more, always more eerily robotic creatures, until, he couldn't even see Jimmy, and the croats were only kept at bay by the length of his arm and the knife gripped fast in his hand.

Then—a hand gripped his shoulder and he knew it was the end. 

He closed his eyes, wishing he'd been able to tell his brother what a good kid he was, just one more time, that he could have apologised properly to Jimmy, hugged Bobby once more—

A swooping sensation caught in his belly, his head wrenched on his neck, and his knees hit the floor—

“Wha?” he choked out, opening his eyes in the sudden, all consuming silence.

His vision danced and spun. His ears rang.

No croats, no screaming, no gun shots. None of that uniquely ghastly noise of metal hitting flesh and being wrested from bone.

Just, a shaken circle of his men, standing, hunched or kneeling, breathing raggedly.

 _That couldn’t be right_ , Dean thought, as he dazedly counted his men. With Castiel—he felt sick at the thought—taken, there should be eight of them looking back at him. And eight of them there were— How were _any_ of them alive? How were they _here_?

“What the hell—”

“ _Loki,_ ” Jimmy growled, his broken voice cutting across Dean's angry retort; hope, terror, anger and soul crushing loss all evident in his strained voice. 

Dean blinked. The figure who stood, relaxed and comfortable, in the center of the loose circle chuckled. Dean finally realized— That wasn't one of his men. He _had_ seen Tory ripped apart. 

Without thought, vertigo and nausea forgotten, Dean was on his feet, hand already raising his knife once more, just as the—person—chuckled again.

His steps stalled. “Close enough!” the new comer chirped his reply, voice like honey.

Jimmy's cry finally made it through his disorientated brain. _Loki._ Loki. 

The one who had hidden Jimmy and Castiel as children, taken them from their families.

Ruined their lives!

Dean stalked forward. “You've got some nerve,” he growled, advancing on the short, smirking—creature? God?

He realized belatedly that he really should have researched more fully into that element of Jim and Cas' story. 

This Loki was clearly a supernatural entity. Dean looked around him, heart starting to calm as his body finally realized they were out of danger. It was apparent that Loki had saved them. Dean scowled at the thought. He was apparently able to haul eight people out of a swarm of croats. They had only lost one man. And while his emotions flooded with grief and sorrow at the realization, relief bubbled up too. It was, frankly, a miracle _any_ of them lived.

He bit back his sadness that another hunter was gone, had died because of him, and forced himself to focus on the present. Castiel was taken, Jimmy looked destroyed, and the eight of them were in a clearing with a supernatural being they knew nothing about.

They were in the clearing, a mile back along the track where they had tied the horses. Six of their ten animals had survived, the other four, little more than a red smear and strewn bone. At that sight, Dean wondered how well Raphael could control his Silent Croats from a distance. 

Thankfully, Falcon and Ghost were among the living, snorting and tossing their hands, pulling at their reigns in distress at the stink of blood.

His team didn't look much better.

He started when Loki slowly turned to him looking indignant. “Me?” He asked raising his eyebrows and a hand to his heart. “I've got some nerve?! You lost my pet!” Dean recoiled at that, as the man's eyes darkened, his lips curling in an affronted snarl.

“Your— Your pet? Jesus, he's a man, not a thing. Christ! You took him and Jimmy from their parents! You hid them, and lost them a long fucking time before we ever met them!” He flung up his arms, forgetting for a moment the gun in his left hand and the gore smeared blade in his right. “They were forced to live in Heaven. And Hell! _Hell_.”

“Eh, you win some you lose some,” the short man-shaped-being shrugged, flicking his blond hair from his flashing eyes, a mischievous grin creeping across his face.

“You win—” Sam began, clearly recovered enough from, what Dean assumed must have been some form of teleportation. “You took them to, what, protect them? Some guardian you turned out to be! Raphael and Lucifer are now equally dangerous! We now have two archangels with full-blown armies walking the Earth, intent of destroying the fucking thing!”

Sam continued to yell, Loki alternately picking at his fingernails or shooting glances at Jimmy, ignoring Sam’s words.

It was just as he looked back to his hands, humming under his breath while Sam ranted on about Loki’s casual attitude, that Jimmy stepped closer to Dean and pulled him aside. 

“Dean—” he began, his voice cracking and cutting off. 

Dean followed and turned to face the man, his eyes almost ethereal in darkness of the deepening sky. “The— The thing. That you wanted to know. That we couldn't— Wouldn't tell?”

Dean nodded, scared to say anything in case Jimmy would stop. Wondering why he wanted to say something _now_. Hoping it was not because he thought he had nothing else to lose. 

“Raphael and Michael loved each other—”

Dean frowned and nodded, figuring that the angelic bond between the angels must be something akin to how he felt about Sam, and wondered what the big deal was, where Jimmy was going with this.

“They _loved_ each other, like only humans do. Carnally.” Jimmy paused, looking pale—sickly white, as if he would throw up. His voice buzzed with fear. His rolled his eyes to heaven briefly, as if for strength, as Dean's brain stalled. 

“Cas and I—we knew of each other long before we truly met. We—we were nineteen—Raphael and Michael made love, using our bodies, but their love was deeper and—and far stronger than I think even Lucifer realized. They adored each other, _loved_ one another. In every way.”

Jimmy stopped, biting his lip, tears welling in his eyes. Dean followed his gaze as he glanced at Loki. Loki, who stood beyond hearing range, still ignoring Sam, and staring intently back, a glint in his eyes.

Dean couldn’t articulate a response, just stared at Jimmy, waiting for it to make sense.

Two angels fell in love. In _love._ Like any old  ‘mud monkey’?

 _And that love is the reason that Raphael is raising an army_ — Dean scowled at the flash of inspiration. “He's raising an army to avenge the death of his lover?” Jimmy nodded slowly. 

How had he not put that together before?

And, Castiel and Jimmy were—

“Castiel and I met because Raphael got scared I would be hurt or killed, after some croats got a little too close to me one day. He didn't want his only remaining link to Michael damaged, so for convenience, he put us both together somewhere safe. And Cas and I met, and it was—” Jimmy paused, unaware his thoughts had pre-empted Dean's questions, a soft little smile on his solemn face. “I fell in love. Not with his appearance, Dean, with his mind. With _him._ Please, I need him bac k—” He broke off again, his voice too choked to continue. 

Dean just blinked as Jim swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. “You see why we couldn't tell you? In front of the council? I don't know if you knew— I just. I need him back. I'm begging you Dean, please, I don't care if you find us disgusting, whether you are repulsed by us. I just know that you are a good man—”

Jimmy bit off his own words, face stricken. Dean was still frozen, finding the entire situation surreal, aware of the gaze of the god on him. But he understood. And he wasn't repulsed.

Jimmy choked on a sob before he raised his eyes and met Dean's gaze again. He looked desperate, pleading and earnest, “I need him.”

Dean nodded dumbly, transfixed.

Without looking away from Jimmy's desperate face, Dean made a decision. “You. Loki or whoever the fuck you think you are. We're going back to camp. You're coming with us. Now can you take us or are we riding?”

The man— Or what ever he truly was, hummed in a seductive way. “Oh Dean-o, I love it when you get all domineering like that.” Dean wasn't looking, but could see him do a comedy style full body shudder from the corner of his eye. He just took a breath, steadying himself.

“But no. You fuckers are heavy! You're on your own for now! I'm tired. I'll see you there—” Loki paused and again, Dean caught the movement of him overtly looking at a wrist watch, “in twenty-nine hours and thirty-eight minutes!”

With that, he disappeared.

Dean  _finally_ dragged his eyes from Jimmy, turning to take in what remained of his team.

He couldn't comprehend the loss of Castiel and Tory— There wasn't room to feel sorrow or guilt. His brain too full of facts, those focused on Lucifer, Raphael and the apocalypse, and the buzzing fact that Jimmy had offered up the knowledge that he already knew, however unconsciously. He had made it something he could address, if he wanted to. If he wanted to admit his feelings to himself—let alone one of the objects of his affection. Only one.

He scowled, unable to cope, and eyed the horses, shivering and covered in blood.

God, but he was so stupid, he berated himself, as he went to Falcon. He pulled himself up and signalled to Jimmy to mount up behind him.

He shouldn't have allowed himself to fall for such a trap.

But, he thought, as he watched Sam pull Jo gently up onto Ghost, he wasn't entirely at fault.

It had been his idea, his effort at getting the lead, the research, hunting down various tips. But he hadn't gone off half-cocked. He had brought the information to Bobby, Sam, Ellen and the others. And they had agreed, deeming it a good lead to follow.

It didn't remove the guilt though, the stinging numbness he felt at having lost Castiel to Raphael once again.

He felt Jimmy's arms encircle his waist, his forehead bumping on Dean's neck as he kicked Falcon into a trot.

No. It did not lessen the guilt.


	12. Chapter 12

Dean was silent, watching the second hand on Bobby's borrowed watch count down the minutes, flicking his gaze every now and then to look around the room.

Jimmy sat silently, arms folded across his chest, glowering.

Everyone else in the council chamber were yelling at each other at the top of their voices, at cross purposes, to no end.

Dean allowed it.

He figured it was better to let them get it out of their system now. Shortly a supernatural being would appear, one that none of them understood. One that had given them an exact time for his arrival, despite the warding that protected the camp. One that would, no doubt, cause even more shouting among the camp's leaders.

He quickly flicked his eyes over to Jimmy once again. His face was an expressionless mask but Dean could read the loss and mourning that practically screamed from his glazed eyes.

Only Dean knew the true extent of the man's feelings.

Jimmy's cold blue eyes turned to him, just as the watch ticked down the last few seconds.

Dean nodded at him, a vague agreement to rescue Castiel, to use the meeting with Loki to that effect.

Three, two, one—

“What? You didn't even prepare me any snacks? What kind of hosts are you?” Loki's voice sounded above the uproar, causing the noise to soar, just as Dean had expected.

Dean stood up. “Enough,” he said quietly. It was sufficient to instantaneously silence the room.

Every head was turned either to him, or to Loki.

“Loki, thank you for keeping your word,” he told the being formally, despite the energy thrumming under his skin. He, like Jimmy, could feel the need to break down, to mourn the loss of someone who had insinuated his way into his heart— He couldn't begin to imagine how Jimmy was feeling, who could honestly call the sensation love. Dean was miserable, Jimmy looked broken.

The only words he had said on the long ride back had been a flat and toneless, “I won't get him back this time.”

Dean yearned to prove him wrong.

As such, he would bite down on every instinct he had to scream in this Loki's face, to order him to get Castiel back, to demand his help.

That wouldn't be enough though, he could already tell this creature was flighty and fickle. He had assisted, yes, but only so much.

He quickly looked to the council, and all the others—heads of weaponry, training and the horses, among others, and swallowed hard, knowing he had to announce what the gossip of the past few hours had already told them.

“Two days ago we lost Castiel to Raphael.

“We do not believe him dead, but this makes Raphael equally, if not more, dangerous than Lucifer.”

He leaned his hands on the table, collecting his thoughts a moment. “We now know that Raphael is grief stricken and bent on revenge.” He looked up, every eye now on him apart from Loki's, whose head had whipped around to focus his intense gaze upon Jimmy.

Jimmy looked at the floor.

Dean had had time to place himself in Raphael's position on the ride home, trying to see all angles, the archangel's motivation.

“I think we're looking at an extremely powerful being who couldn't give two shits about this planet, about Peace On Earth, even by their original, destructive standards.

“I think he simply wants to destroy Lucifer, never mind the cost. He will use whatever he has in his arsenal, including, as we already know, Castiel, angel's Grace and croats. He couldn't give less of a damn about human life.”

He paused a moment to take a breath. “We know though, that Lucifer still wants to stick to 'The Plan,' Apocalypse. He wants Earth to survive, even if he wishes to wipe humans from the map.”

He looked up, making eye contact with as many of his friends, family and loyal fighters as he could. “I believe Raphael is the greater threat alone, but, with Lucifer's disgust at—” He broke off, biting his tongue to keep Jimmy’s secret. “With Lucifer being disgusted by everything that Raphael is now— If they meet in battle, we'll be done for.”

His pronouncement fell on tense and expectant ears. Everyone looked drawn, including Loki, who up until that point had had a small gleeful smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Now though, he had a shrewd expression, his eyes narrowed, and focused on Dean.

Dean kept the contact, staring back, trying to work out where Loki stood in all this. “Loki, you tried to hide Castiel and Jimmy— Why? Why bother at all? Why them? Why not me and Sammy, or my father and grandfather for that matter?”

Every head, except Jimmy's, turned to Loki, who preened under the attention.

He clapped. Dean scowled.

“Good speech! I'm impressed!” Loki's serious expression was gone, a new persona sitting on top, vapid, but solid. Dean just glowered at him.

“Well! First up, I suppose I oughta tell you, I'm not Loki.” He seemed to expect stunned silence, and he deflated a little when all he got was a room of frowning bafflement.

He started pacing. “Loki is a god of mischief, I might have—made him up. A long time ago.”

He stopped, directly opposite Dean and winked, “I'm Gabriel,” he announced with a flourish.

“Gabriel. Archangel and messenger of God?” Bobby asked from the back of the room, scepticism dripping from every word.

“That's me bucko!” The creature started pacing again. Dean, as confused as everybody else, suddenly found he wanted answers— Why wasn't he fighting? Whose side was he on? How the hell could he make it past the warding?

That last was the question he voiced in to the tense room.

“Oh Dean-o, always hittin' the nail on the head, huh? I am an archangel, but I'm also Loki, now, anyway. When you get cut off from heaven, you see, your Grace can’t renew. I'm powerful, but I have more the power of a god, than that of the full Grace of heaven's mightiest weapon.”

He carried on jauntily pacing about the room. “Your warding doesn't stop me, because I'm not really anything at all— I'm something new!”

He looked proud, but Dean saw something in his eyes, loss maybe, that couldn’t be hidden.

Dean's mind started seething, working on using this angel to their advantage, but something told him to wait, to hear him out. He didn't want to risk the creature fluttering off and leaving them blind, deaf, and dumb in this once more.

“So… About the whole removing Cas and Jimmy from their parents for fun thing—” Dean asked, unable to keep his tone completely neutral. He was angry, on Jim and Castiel's behalf, on his own, on his family’s.

“Not for fun, you ape,” Gabriel suddenly hissed, spinning to face Dean, furious fists hitting the table.

His face calmed lightning fast though, smoothing out as he straightened. “A—miscalculation.”

“I found every member of Lucifer and Michael's familial vessels and hid them in an attempt to prevent the apocalypse from beginning. If the vessels were not available, the righteous man could not go to hell, and this whole sorry state of affairs could have been avoided.”

“So why—”

“Why did I let Grandaddy take the plunge and hide those two?” Gabriel waved toward the single lonely Jimmy, and Dean nodded.

“Well, firstly, I hid hundreds of people. Placed them with trusted guards who could protect them, keep them warded. But—” He shrugged and looked guilty. “I might have been working on a different time line. I was hiding your generation first, thinking the game plan wasn't quite so close to hand— Your Grampy Henry went and made the deal to save Johnny-boy's life, kick starting the whole thing about twenty years earlier than I had anticipated.” Gabriel shrugged, eyes dark

“And you two—” his head snapped up as he gestured toward Dean and Sam, “before you get your panties in a twist, were too well hidden yourselves. The moment you were born, Henry already had you warded—against most things—you, your home, your car.

“It was too late for Henry by the time I worked out that I had the time line… wrong.” He looked annoyed, like he hadn't been able to find the last piece of a puzzle, when everything else was in place.

“So, what happened with Cas 'n Jim? How come they got ridden by two fuckin'—fucking _angels_ since they were twelve years old huh?” His temper snapped, unable to hold it in any longer, but just managing to keep Jimmy's secret for him. He instantly bit his tongue, worried that Gabriel would leave, wouldn't help.

Gabriel sniggered, “I think a rate of one bad egg in a huge basket of angels and demons showing loyalty to an unknown god isn't too bad, amiright? Although—” He pulled a face as he shrugged before his expression melted into a grin. “When I found the conniving little turncoat I—, uh, turned _his_ coat inside out, if you follow my drift.“ He leered, but Dean only frowned shaking his head.

“Oh for— I turned his skin inside out, Simpsons style—”

“It doesn't matter.” Jimmy interrupted flatly from his side of the room, finally speaking aloud. “The point is that Cas has been taken!” Jimmy's voice cracked as he yelled. “And—and there's a—an apocalypse _still_ happening!” Despite Jimmy's fear and fury, Dean had to bite his tongue not to smile fondly at the man's clear attempt avoid swearing. “I don't care what happens to me, what I care about it getting my—getting Castiel back! He's gone—” Dean had to look away as Jimmy's face crumpled.

“And—and I could have fucking saved him!” Jimmy finally snarled, his despair cutting through his manners. “I could see the specters writhing in terror _before_ Raphael showed up! Why didn't I pay attention?!” His voice tailed off into a world of his own misery.

But all else was silent. Even Gabriel's gaze was focused; intent and calculating upon his face.

Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise at his swearing before the rest of his words filtered through. “What— What specters? What _are_ specters? What are you talking about?”

Jimmy's eyes widened a little in surprise, then even further in fear.

Dean could hear murmuring around the room, shifting and fidgeting. “Quiet!” This was important. Jimmy hadn't meant to voice those words.

“Jimmy?” He asked kindly, softly; it was just them now.

But it wasn't Jimmy who answered.

“He—” Gabriel huffed out an amazed laugh. “He can see the ghost of ghosts. Can't you?”

Jimmy shook his head then shrugged and nodded.

“We didn’t know what they were, only that they were harmless to us. They like Dean.” He said the last lowly, almost too quiet to hear.

“Wait— What the Hell?” Dean was reeling, not understanding half the things that were being said, but experiencing a jolt of fear at the mention of his name.

Gabriel sighed out irritably, “Look, moron, Jimmy here can see the, what he called specters, what I call the ghosts of ghosts. They are the harmless souls left behind when monsters are killed. You've made hundreds of them. Their bodies and minds go to purgatory, their souls are left behind, pointless, drifting.” He cut himself off, eyes narrowing and turning back to Jim. “But wait, you can't see—”

Gabriel fixed Jimmy with a stare, until he looked down again and shrugged. “Cas and I can see different ones— until we touch. Then we can both see them all.”

“Fascinating,” Gabriel laughed. “I would guess that you're seeing the souls of the creatures that were turned, and Castiel, having resided in Hell for so long, can see the souls of those who turned themselves, who made a choice to become evil.”

Jimmy's eyes widened in fear. “Don't worry, they're all harmless now. De-armed and mindless, literally, just shadows left behind.”

“Why are they all drawn to Dean? They cluster around him and follow him anywhere it isn't warded,” Jimmy questioned, everyone else forgotten in his wide eyed curiosity.

Gabriel looked sharply at Dean then back to Jimmy, that shrewd expression on his face once more, before he shrugged, a grin wiping his features clean. “No clue!”

-

Jimmy narrowed his eyes at Gabriel's nonchalant rebuttal. His heart still thumped in his chest at accidentally letting slip the existence of the specters, not feeling any better for the fact that he _could_ have saved Castiel if only he had known what their behaviour had meant.

He looked up though, when Bobby cleared his throat, finding the older man's eyes fixed intently on him. “Can we use this—this power o' yours to hunt down the angel, or Castiel?” Bobby asked, clearly thinking out loud.

Jimmy sighed in relief that someone was being useful, thinking of his boyfriend.

Gabriel started laughing heartily, slapping his palms on his thighs. “Use them? To track! You high, old man? They're shades, nothing more than an imprint. They couldn't find a stash of dope with a sniffer dog!”

Jimmy slumped in his chair once again.

He looked back at Dean, a spike of nerves chasing themselves across his chest as his eyes landed on the man that _knew. K_ new that Raphael and Michael had used him and Cas to make love, long before he and Cas had ever truly met. And he hadn't even blinked— There hadn't been pity, or terror, sympathy or revulsion. It had been perfect.

Cas and he knew very well they had essentially been raped, but they had learned to detach from their bodies when that had happened, they had no control, so it had been easy to simply slip away for a while. Neither of them wanted pity, or horror or disgust.

Dean had simply seemed interested, then pleased that he finally had the answers to his questions.

Not only did Jimmy feel guilt that he hadn't heeded the unknowing warning of the specters just before Castiel was taken, but all this could have been avoided if they had trusted the man, if they had trusted Dean.

“Wow, working with humans— You're like amoeba, you really are very slow aren't you?” Gabriel suddenly spouted, pulling Jimmy's eyes from Dean's frowning face, to Gabriel's incredulous one.

“You have the Bunker, am I right? I can still read your pitiful little minds a little bit. You have access to the world's greatest deposit of knowledge on the supernatural at your disposal. I'm pretty sure they'll have one measly finding spell.”

Sam made an almost choked noise, as if he was appalled that he had forgotten all about Jimmy and Castiel's prison. The expression on his face implied that he had. Jimmy scowled, remembering too well the solid walls that had held him so long.

“Wait Sam,” Dean interjected. “Why do we need to go there for a tracking spell? We have some here—”

“Not strong enough,” Bobby interrupted, at which Dean inclined his head in agreement.

“But we also have an archangel, god—whatever, here who has already tracked us once.” He looked to Gabriel challengingly. “Do you want to tell us how? We're all warded after all—”

Jimmy barely paid attention, dread filling his gut that he may have to return to the Bunker.

Gabriel looked sly, but eventually answered Dean's question. “I wasn't tracking any of you, and I can't track my brothers. I can feel—I don’t know how to explain it—I can _feel_ the angelic croats.” Jimmy frowned at the god's confused tone.

“And when they're flown, I can feel it like ripples. I’ve been following those, ever since Raphael first tore apart one of my brothers and stuffed him into the virus-ridden primates. Well, after I lost the trail of you two—” He suddenly pinned Jimmy with a glare, as if it was his fault, before flicking his gaze to Dean. “Well done Dean. Your warding hid them from me.”

Dean frowned, clearly unsure whether it was a compliment or censure.

“To the bunker then?” Bobby asked gruffly, irritation clear in his voice from across the table. Jimmy watched him, catching his eye, with a soft nod. He smiled back, just a twitch of his lips. Bobby, he decided, was a shrewd man, and almost certainly on his side.

Dean huffed out a sigh. “To the Bunker.”

-

Jimmy awkwardly slid from the horse's back, glaring at the specters that gathered up close to where Dean had gracefully dismounted, some of them even reaching out arms as if to pet him, but pulling back at the last moment, determined not to actually touch.

The council, and another fresh group of hunters and fighters gathered close around Gabriel as he phased into the air from nothingness.

Sam fiddled with the large key that apparently opened more than mere mechanical locks.

“Hey,” came Dean's voice from right next to Jim, causing him to jump in surprise. He turned, and found it hard to look at Dean through the thicket of ghost's ghosts. “I figured you wouldn't want to go inside,” Dean told him, a soft look on his face.

He nodded gratefully, but even so, wondered if it would be easier to go inside his prison, than to deal with the strange ghost-like-things grouping so close.

“Wanna sit?” Dean asked with a spark of hope in his eyes, waving his hand to the steps dropping into the hillside where the door to the Bunker was. Jimmy nodded hesitantly, as Sam, Gabriel and the others all filed inside. His eyes darted around trying to find the edge of individual specters in front of him before fixing his gaze on Dean through the throng. “It's not like they need me in there. Sammy can deal with that shit.”

He let Dean walk ahead so that he could see more easily, wondering if he should just propose going inside to avoid the issue despite the clench in his chest at the thought.

But the moment that Dean passed the threshold of the concrete the issue became moot. The specters, like they had at the sigil on the tree and around the small camp site just the previous night, gathered at an invisible line they could not cross.

He held his breath and pushed his way through the throng, which was like walking any other place—there was no resistance—the specters either moved of their own will or rebounded off without even the sensation of a gentle breeze to ground him.

He sighed in relief as he sat next to Dean on the cold concrete, shifting in discomfort, his back, thankfully, to the specters he could imagine still crowding in.

“So—” Dean began, swallowing and starting again. “I'm, er, sorry for—well—for fucking _everything_. Everything I've put you through, everything I've done to cause you pain. For losing Cas.” He rushed through his words, voice gruff and heavy.

“I shouldn't have brought you out to that meet— But— I just couldn't leave you both behind— I needed— I wan— I— Fuck.” He ended, chewing on his lip, eyes averted.

“I need to make it up to you. I need to bring Cas back to you.” Dean said, voice heavy. Jimmy watched as the man, who he had thought to be made with a core of granite, shattered like glass.

“It's my fault.” Dean finished, clearly done, dropping his head, and awaiting Jimmy's judgement.

For all the hurt and pain spiralling in his gut, the sensation that his heart was on the verge of tripping over itself, the knowledge that he had lost Cas—he didn't want to see this beautiful man destroy himself over it.

And, Dean _was_ beautiful. He already knew this, but watching him be truly human, to show emotion, to crumble, made him stunning in every way in Jimmy's eyes.

He wasn't just good or attractive, he was vulnerable. He, too, was broken that Castiel had been taken from them. He too felt guilt. He then, too, must feel, at least a little, the same way as Jimmy did.

And he had said he wanted to being Castiel back to him, to Jimmy.

He wasn't disgusted or repulsed by their love. He wasn't even confused, or questioning or ignoring it. He just accepted it—

Maybe— Maybe there was a chance?

Jimmy steeled himself.

“If— _when_ we get Castiel back, he—” He suddenly lost his nerve, terrified for himself as well as Castiel, wondering if he had really read Dean correctly.

Dean looked up, his eyes red, but dry, tension visible in every line of his body, where he sat, back bowed and elbows on knees.

Jimmy could see his jaw clenching.

“Why do you even care?” he suddenly asked, genuinely curious, not unkind.

“I— You're— I— um,” Dean stuttered, his face a mask of confusion and embarrassment, making Jimmy's battered heart bounce in his chest.

“Castiel could come back to both of us… If you wanted...”

He left the sentence hanging, his lungs suddenly deciding they really didn't want him to breathe.

Dean's eyes widened and his lips parted in surprise.

They were frozen a moment, Jimmy fearful that he _had_ read everything wrong.

But, Jim couldn't look away—

Not even in relief when Dean leaned in, hesitated just a moment, and pressed his lips to Jimmy's.

-

Dean flinched when he realized what he had done, despite Jimmy's soft sigh. Had that been appropriate? Had Jimmy wanted it? Or had be just been hoping, praying—

He stood up and stumbled up the steps onto the grass beyond. “I— I'm sorry— That wasn't— Was that… all… right?” He became hesitant, watching Jimmy's face first crumple and close down, hiding the hurt that had been obvious a moment, before he began to look a little more hopeful, the longer Dean stumbled through his words. Dean bit his lip as, finally, a touch of amusement crept into his eyes.

Jimmy nodded almost imperceptibly.

Dean huffed a sigh of relief as he stood there clenching his fists a little with unspent energy, looking at Jimmy where he still sat.

He suddenly felt a hot rush of guilt that Castiel didn't know. That he had kissed Jimmy behind his back.

That thought was more than enough to steel his resolve.

He _would_ get Castiel back. They _would_ all survive. And, he would spend some time with both of these men. These men who lit him up from the inside with excitement, attraction and interest.

“Okay, good, we, um—” He began, not really knowing what to do next, but liking the softness in Jimmy's eyes nonetheless. He realized that was the first time he had kissed a man.

A shiver rolled down his spine at the thought, at the short memory of dry, warm lips and rasping stubble.

“Go on! Hold hands! Do it!”

The voice cut through the tension like a rusty spoon, and almost as grating.

Jimmy stood up, anger and fear all over his face, just as Dean spun to find Gabriel, standing feet planted solidly, arms folded over his chest. “What? I— I'm not goi—”

“Just hold hands,” Gabriel said with emphasis on each word and a raised eyebrow.

He wasn’t playing around.

Dean stood and turned to Jimmy, who carefully, stepped across the concrete barrier, wincing slightly. His eyes followed movement again that Dean could not see. He frowned, but held out his hand. Jimmy, with only a little hesitation reached out, grazing his fingertips across Dean's palm, intertwining their fingers just slightly.

Dean saw Gabriel smirk before his breath was stolen by surprise and shock, and not a little fear.

His hand clamped closed around Jimmy's instinctively.

Surrounding them, in a constantly moving throng, were milky-white, translucent, blob-like, faceless— _things_.

“Specters?” he asked Jimmy in a whisper, awed.

He felt Jimmy nod. “Specters.”

He watched in wonder as they gathered up to him, pushing against each other, the appendages that resembled arms reaching out toward him, but never touching.

He reached his own free arm out, watched with amazed amusement as they dodged and contorted to avoid touching him, but then gathered, bending to inspect his hand and wriggling fingers.

One even copied the movement.

Jimmy snorted a laugh, breaking the moment.

Suddenly hyper aware of Jimmy's fingers, warm between his own, he squeezed his hand before letting it go, huffing out a sigh as the vision of the specters evaporated.

“And that's only half of them,” Jimmy said quietly, eyes still darting about Dean in a halo, clearly following the specters’ movements.

“So. It's true.” Gabriel muttered, before snapping into his _Loki_ persona again.

“Looks like the musty dusty Men Of Letters knew somethin' after all! Nice reference books down there. Real girthy.”

Dean stared at him blankly a moment before blinking and shaking his head. It was hard to credit this— _thing_ as being extremely powerful archangel or god.

“What are you talking about Gabriel?”

Gabriel sniffed as if affronted, “Well, I did some research while your gargantuan brother began plodding through his own books down there. Looks like my theory was correct!”

Gabriel grinned, as if Dean should understand, should be pleased.

Dean just scratched his head, wondering if Gabriel would hurry up and explain if he punched him.

The light in Gabriel's eyes intensified, along with his grin as he fixed Dean with his gaze.

“You're the _Shepherd._ ”


	13. Chapter 13

Dean turned to Jimmy. The man looked just as confused as he felt, questions written clearly all over his face. But, he didn't remain focused on Jim, instead he fixed his eyes on Sam, Bobby and a few others who had reappeared, standing on the steps into the Bunker.

“Okay, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asked, suddenly aggressive. 

As if he didn't have enough on his plate, he now had to be given some dumbass title, that, given the Winchester's history, would probably get him killed— Or worse.

Gabriel, on his periphery, made an extravagant shrugging gesture.

“I'm sorry Dean-o, I just read the signs, I'm not really a real angel any more— The old noggin ain't as good at the ol' rememberin' these days!”

Dean rolled his eyes and ignored the infuriating bastard.

“Jimmy? Bobby? Sam? Any ideas here? I'm really hoping it has nothing to do with that Jean-Claude Van Douche.”

Dean frowned as Jimmy's brow wrinkled in confusion before shrugging it off.

“In the biblical sense,” Jim started a little hesitantly, “the Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. He is the only one that they will follow, and he is the only one true to them. He must lead them. It's essentially a metaphor that Jesus and God are the only ones who you should follow, since they're the only ones who will get you to heaven.” He finished his words in a derisive tone of voice.

Sam and Bobby remained silent, thoughtful.

“I can't see how that's remotely relevant,” Bobby finally groused. There was a closed off, dark expression on his face as he stomped forward a few paces. “God's been AWOL fer years, n' Dean certainly ain't him.” He shrugged his shoulders and grabbed Jimmy's arm.

Jimmy jerked in surprise and tried to pull his arm from Bobby’s grip, a frightened scowl crossing his face before Bobby grumbled the words “Cool yer jets, boy, I’m just tryin’a see…”

“Nothin'” he said, louder with a deep frown and a sigh. Dean bit his lip and Jimmy huffed out a breath, his shoulders relaxing as he placed his bare hand on Bobby's. “Still nothin,' kid.” 

Jimmy frowned this time, “Really?” he asked, before reaching out to take Sam's hand. 

Sam simply shook his head after the contact. “What are we meant to see?”

Jimmy huffed out a short laugh. “You'd know if you could see them.” 

Dean nodded his head emphatically to support his—friend. It looked like whatever the Hell Gabriel thought he was, _The Shepherd_ , it was only him who could be affected by Jimmy's particular power.

“Come on,” Bobby shrugged. “We came out to tell ya we found a location spell that oughta do the trick.” 

Dean nodded, but hesitated. “You want to stay out here?” he asked Jimmy.

A look of panic crossed the man's face, but he shook his head a little, and followed behind them as Dean slowly turned and trooped down the concrete steps after Bobby and Sam.

He smiled as, once on the steps, Jimmy's hand curled once more into his, no one behind them to see.

“There's no sp—” Dean began.

Jimmy cut him off. “Warding,” was all he said with a shrug, before nodding toward the door, letting Dean lead.

-

Jimmy felt sick as he descended the metal staircase into the Bunker. It felt different, his sweaty palm wrapped in Dean's, choosing to walk in the front door, rather than simply being zapped to the dungeon and chained up, but it was still nauseating. 

Dean didn't say a word.

Someone else might take him for callous, but the almost flinch-like, lightning fast tightening of his hand around Jimmy's was all that he required to know that the man wasn't ignorant of his fears, but simply didn't pander to them.

That's all Jimmy wanted from him.

Well, at least in that respect.

Dean let go of his hand again as they stepped off the stairs, noting the large group of people gathered in the room. Jimmy was saddened at the loss, but grateful to Dean, too.

Inside, gathered around a huge map-covered table at the center, were Sam, Bobby and some of the others.

All of them were pouring over a spread of ancient papers and more recent manilla folders.

As he watched, a hunter he recognized from the day he had been rescued from the Bunker appeared, and placed a blue glass jar with a wide stopper onto the table, before standing off to one side and entering a conversation with another hunter.

Jimmy watched on as other people appeared with various items in their hands and arms and placed them on the table, Bobby slowly picking up each item as he referred to a newly written list by his side.

Jimmy was a little taken aback by the abilities of those he had fallen in with. They had spent less than an hour searching for a spell, and, having found it, were already putting it into action. No fear, simply professional confidence that they could work magic.

Even with his near forty years of knowing that there was something else; the supernatural, their ease with such things was surprising.

Bobby placed a wide pan on the table and started slowly measuring ingredients. Some animal hair, dried and flaked plants, various disgusting and viscous liquids. He stirred them with a metal spoon, whilst Sam muttered in Latin before dropping in a rolled up piece of paper.

“I hate spells like this, man,” Dean whispered next to him. “Making decent paper is a bitch and we can’t really replicate maps anymore, not with any accuracy.” He sounded petulant, as if throwing away paper and cartography truly hurt him. 

Jimmy smiled, but his attention was stolen once more as the pan burst into blue and yellow flame, a smell of ozone filling the room quickly, before Sam dipped his hand in and picked up a ragged and stained piece of paper.

“He's, maybe, two day's ride away from the camp? At the moment?” Sam said, squinting at the map fragment.

Jimmy felt Dean shift next to him, squaring his shoulders and taking a large breath.

“Okay,” Dean began, flashing a minuscule but bright smile at Jimmy. 

“Here's the plan. One; rescue Cas. Two; kill Raphael. Three; find Lucifer and kill him too. And, four; save the world—make it safe for humans again. Short, sweet and to the point.”

There was silence, although Jimmy couldn't tell what kind as everyone's faces were completely blank, devoid of thought and emotion.

A cackling, gurgling, delighted laugh filled the room, whooping with mis-caught breaths and snapping the silence in half.

“Oh, Dean-o that's precious,” Gabriel finally choked out. “Really? _That's_ your plan?” He slapped his thigh, bent double, still chuckling. 

Jimmy had to bite his lip not to join in. It  _was_ a little absurd. Sam and Bobby went from poker faced to snickering in an instant. 

“You have to admit it ain't quite up to your normal calibre there, kid,” Bobby huffed out eventually. 

Dean folded his arms, offended. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Jimmy couldn't hold back a chuckle as Sam and Bobby outright laughed. Gabriel was practically on the floor howling.

“Well, any of you have a better suggestion?” Dean demanded with a pout.

His words brought back the desperate tension that had been present all along, and Jimmy instantly missed the mirth, it's abrupt termination reminding him of the empty hole where Castiel used to be too. 

A pessimistic mood settled, even Gabriel calmed. “As terrible as your plan is, it appears to be the only one we got bucko,” the angel stated.

Bobby grunted and turned to the other hunters, looking confused and strained at the edges of the room. He started ordering them to pack up ingredients, and Sam sidled off back into the depths of the Bunker; Gabriel idly poked a rack of samurai blades affixed to the wall.

“Can we go back outside?” Jimmy asked Dean, who, still pouting, shrugged and nodded, leading the way back up and out into the sun and the fresh, free air.

Standing in the center of the dirt track leading to the Bunker, Dean paused, letting Jimmy come to a standstill next to him. “Is this— This okay?” he asked, gruff. Jimmy looked up, wondering what he meant, until he saw his hand movement, wafting about in front of them. 

He breathed out a laugh. “It's— Yeah, it’s fine,” he shrugged. “A little creepy. They're all standing around us staring at you.” He watched the specters, but focused on enjoying the touch of heat from the sunlight on his skin. 

“So,” Dean turned to him, “seeing as even I gotta admit my plan ain't exactly water tight right now, you got anything that's gonna help us get Cas back?”

Jimmy couldn't see any hope in the man's eyes as he looked up that extra inch or so to meet his gaze.

Dean's freckles glowed gold where the setting sun struck them.

He shrugged, unlike with explaining just how involved Raphael and Michael really were, he didn't know if anything else he might know would actually be of use. He felt no qualms telling Dean anything he wanted to know anymore, and he had nothing to hide. He would do anything to get Castiel back; safe, alive and whole next to him. 

That ache in his chest was so strong. It felt as if it was trying to claw it's way out, leaving his chest raw and his breath ragged. He  _needed_ Castiel.

All of a sudden he felt Dean's arms wrapped around him, holding him tight and firm, pulled fast against his chest.

He realized his face was wet. 

“We'll get him back, Jim,” Dean whispered against his hair, his breath tickling his ear and making him shiver. “We can't— I mean, if Lucifer wins, or Raphael, it doesn’t matter, not any more. The world will still be fucked, destroyed for hate, or love, it doesn't matter to them. So we'll have nothing to lose. I'll give it everything I’ve got.”

Dean paused, and loosened his grip a little, allowing Jimmy to take a shuddering breath. Jim wrapped his own arms around Dean in turn, tucking his face into his neck, inhaling his scent. It calmed him the smallest bit, assuaged that cascading wave of loss that had swallowed him whole.

“I will get Cas back for you. I can see— I know how much you lo—how much you love him.” Dean struggled through the last words, making Jim smile a little ruefully.

Jim didn't address Dean's difficulty saying the L-word though, something else needed to be brought up. “Dean, I said before, and it wasn't a whim; he'll come back to us _both_.” He smiled up at Dean hopefully, terrified that this fragile new thing would be broken by the merest  stress or strain. Terrified that it would be futile, because Castiel would be dead. But, hopeful all the same.

He looked into Dean's green eyes and tried to imagine dating him, alone, if Cas didn't make it, and they, by some miracle, did. 

He couldn't do it. Not that he would like the man less, but because without Castiel, there just wouldn't be any point. He loved the man, and loving another, if his feelings for Dean developed that way, wouldn't detract from that love. But, loving someone, anyone, _without_ Castiel?  He couldn't conceive of it. He didn't want a relationship unless Castiel was a part of it.

Dean's face was composed, closed, a hint of worry touching his mouth.

“I just—I haven't properly been in a relationship since we formed Camp Salvage. I've never—I've never been with a guy.” He paused, swallowing hard. “And, I can't help it, I want both of you equally.” He broke off to laugh a little hysterically. “I can't believe you want anything to do with me, either of you, let alone _both_ of you. Are you sure? I mean, I'm a mess, I've slept around, I don't have any time —”

“Dean, shut up. You have fascinated Castiel and I from the first moment we saw you.”

Dean's eyes lit up.

“We decided days ago that we would risk letting you know about us. We felt it was a—an audition? A trial run?” It worried him to admit that to Dean, but he simply nodded, seriously at first, absorbing the fact that Jimmy and Castiel were aware their relationship would be frowned upon, at the very least. 

Jim's heart squeezed when a sly grin danced across Dean's face. “So you were loud those nights on purpose?”

“W— What?!” he stuttered, shock sending his heart thundering in his chest. He had not realized they _had_ been heard. And—nights—plural?

Dean pulled back a little, his hands sliding down his arms to rest at his elbows. “You— You weren't,” he stated flatly.

“We— Um, Nights? When we— I— Fuck.” He hissed out the last, wincing at himself as the swearword sneaked through his filter, shaking his head. He wordlessly cursed Dean for flustering him. His cheeks burned, even though he knew he didn’t blush, he could feel the embarrassment rising.

“You heard us.”

Dean nodded, a slight smile creeping back to his lips. “That first time, you were hardly quiet.”

He shook Dean's hands off him so that he could swipe a hand through his hair, uncomfortable. “We didn't think you'd heard in the end, because you didn't react.”

Dean chuckled. “Oh, I reacted all right.” Jimmy just raised an eyebrow at that. Dean closed his mouth and bit his lip in an attempt to stop smiling.

“We decided to test your ability to cope with the whole… twin thing?” He made it a question, his lip twisting with dislike thinking of Castiel and himself as twins. They were not in any way alike, aside from appearance, at least in his opinion. “And, I hadn't realized there had been a second time.”

“Er, in the tents...” Dean trailed off, then he too pulled a face. “You're not really twins, buddy, and I think I'm fine with it, more than fine. I mean, I didn't have much issue, um, kind of watching and listening?”

It was Dean's turn to make a statement a question, clearly uncomfortable admitting that he had watched—

Which had Jimmy's brain stuttering to a halt.  _He watched? He heard?_

His dick twitched at the thought.

“And you…?” He left the question hanging, looking past Dean at the warded and darkening hillside of the Bunker.

“Well, put it this way, I've started doing my own laundry.” Jimmy sniggered as Dean winced, and he leaned up, pressing his lips to Dean's without a second thought.

Dean froze a second, then pressed back, close mouthed, one of his hands coming up to grip Jimmy’s hair before he pulled back, a soft smile on his damp lips.

“It, er, it feels wrong, Jim, to kiss you without Castiel knowing about this.” Dean looked down, a sad tilt to his lips, but his words made something swell inside of Jimmy.

“You're right, it is, and that only makes you more… fascinating. I suggest you improve your plan to get my—our boyfriend back.”

He made a leap using that word, scared he had overstepped some invisible barrier, like the ones the specters had pushed up against. They gathered around them now, glowing strangely in the last rays of the sun. 

But Dean's smile was like the sun rising all over again, “I guess you're right.” He grinned and stood back, letting go of Jimmy entirely, leaving the places where his hands had rested, cold.

Jim flinched as the Bunker doors banged open and Sam fell through them, out of breath and with a gleam in his eye. He and Dean guiltily shuffled another foot apart as they turned to him.

“I found it!” Sam called excitedly. _Found what?_ Jimmy wondered. As far as he  had been aware, they were searching for anything else helpful before they rode back out. He winced at the thought of sitting on a horse again, eyeing the beasts where they stood placidly in the lengthening shadows. 

“I found the spell Raphael made! To split an angel's Grace! To place it in more than one vessel!”

-

Sam folded his arms across his chest. He couldn't help the war of emotions he felt as he watched Dean, Jo and Jimmy go through defensive routines together, the winner staying in the ring, giving Jim pointers as they went. 

Dean was breathing hard, sweating, but he had a smile on his face. Just as he had had since they'd returned from the Bunker two days before.

Sam couldn't remember the last time Dean had looked so free, easy. Nor the last time he hadn't had near-black circles under his bloodshot eyes. He even looked as if he had put on a little weight.

Sam scowled. It wasn't as if he wasn't happy his brother was feeling better, but he was concerned. For the camp.

He cleared his throat and tightened his grip on the soft paper in his hand, a report from one of the patrols.

Dean looked up and caught his eye, his smile fading as he told the others to continue without him.

He picked up a rag to wipe his forehead as he approached. Sam caught the lingering glance Jim gave his brother's turned back.

_Oh._

He coughed again, as Dean came to a stop in front of him.

“What?” Dean asked abruptly, clearly unimpressed to have been interrupted.

“Justin just dropped off a load of reports from the morning patrols,” Sam answered, chewing his lip at Dean's irritated scowl and the man's quick glance over his shoulder at Jim and Jo.

“Look—” Sam began, trying to pick his words carefully. “I'm happy that you and Jim made up, I really am. But, now isn't the time for all this bonding, Dean. You need to focus, on the Camp. We're trying to gather the information to fight two deranged archangels, or had you forgotten?”

Dean's eyes turned dark in a glower that, Sam had to admit, would have had anyone else stepping back from their leader in fear.

“I just think, you could, I dunno, take a step back from all this time you're spending with Jimmy— I mean, he needs to take the time to integrate with other people too.” Sam sighed at Dean's menacing silence. “This had better not be a guilt thing.”

Dean audibly swallowed and tilted his head, eyebrows raised.

“My friendship with Jimmy is not a _guilt thing._ ” Dean's words were scathing, and Sam had to look away. His brother may be looking healthier, but he hadn't lost that blank fury he had had since their father had said yes to the Devil.

“Sam. Give me that report. I'll take care of it. Don't you worry your pretty little head. I'm not going to fail the Camp.”

Sam felt his stomach tense in worry as Dean sneered at him before turning back to Jim and Jo to collect his discarded gun and knife holsters.

As Dean stalked off Jo sent Sam a similar look. This was easier to decipher, though. She was disappointed that he had basically kicked Dean to the curb, almost certainly negating any progress Dean had made; probably ending his happy streak. Sam huffed out a sigh of annoyance, most of it aimed at himself. She was right. But they were entering the home stretch now. Dean couldn't afford distractions. None of them could.

“Jimmy?” he called, that last thought lingering in his mind. “I need to talk to you a minute.”

Jim shot him an unsurprised look before sighing and dropping his wooden sparring stick. “Sam. What can I do for you?” Jimmy asked, his face flushed from the exercise, and like Dean, dripping with sweat, but his tone flat.

It was a cold day, despite the sun, and Sam knew Jim would chill quickly. “Look, I'm going to sound like a dick, and I'm sorry, but I saw the way you looked at Dean.” Sam was satisfied at Jim's small, but clearly startled reaction. “I just—Dean's never really done relationships. He's too busy running things here. I don't even think he's into guys—so, I just think it's wiser to back off? For a while?”

As Sam spoke, Jimmy's face became more and more reminiscent of a thunderstorm, brooding and angry. His blue eyes were all but mirror-like in their controlled anger.

Sam pushed on anyway, not willing to let Dean be compromised, not now. “And what about Castiel?”

Sam rejoiced a little at the change in Jim's expression. It went from fuming to white, almost green in seconds.

“W— What about Cas?” he croaked out, wrapping his arms around his chest.

Sam frowned in question. Had the man's twin been so wrapped up in Dean that he had forgotten his own brother? Being ridden by an archangel?

“Won’t he, I don’t know, end up a little lonely? Isolated? If you were to spend more time with Dean? I think you ought to _both_ be concentrating on getting Cas back, if I'm honest with you Jim. Isn’t that the priority? Rather than...” He left the last sentence hanging, his implication clear.

Jimmy's face cleared, and he looked down almost sheepishly, chewing his own lip and frowning hard.

“I— Yes. Maybe you're right. I will push Dean more to focus on his duties,” Jim looked up and finally made eye contact with Sam, his features open. “I honestly thought I was helping, but I see now, I was wrong.”

Sam was left alone within moments, Jimmy walking away, stiff backed, and Jo running to catch up with him, shooting Sam a dirty look as she went.

He huffed out a sigh. He still wasn't entirely sure he trusted the twins, certainly not after that display. He didn't believe Jimmy's calm demeanour and blank face.

Even though he was worried that he had sabotaged his own brother's happiness, Sam walked back to Bobby knowing he had done the right thing.


	14. Chapter 14

“Why do we keep ending up in this God-awful place?” Dean asked, not expecting an answer from any of those surrounding him. Aside from Jimmy, he figured they were probably wondering the same thing.

He and the others were standing, clustered on a rise of land, hidden by leafless trees. From their position they could see across the wide vista ahead of them. Muddy, gray fields spreading for miles. Stull Cemetery sat squat and ugly dead center. 

Spreading through those un-tilled, rotten crop fields were two armies.

Terrifying, ordered, disinterested; the Silent Croats marched from the West.

Shambolic, vicious, and rowdy; the demons swarmed from the East.

“We're too late,” Sam said next to him, watching the armies and ignoring Dean's question about the cemetery. This was the place where their grandfather had died, along with the archangel Michael. This was the place their father's body had walked off with Lucifer cozy inside, dusting his hands and ready to kill the world.

Dean just stood still, glaring at the hordes that the powerful location spell had not prepared them for. They had tracked the movements of both Raphael and Lucifer, and found them converging. But they had not known to expect two armies meeting.

They had assumed the two angels would not be meeting alone, but that hadn't anticipated  _this._ Nothing on this scale.

He was scared to admit that Sammy was right. They  _were_ too late.

Dean jumped, blinking, as he felt cool fingers brushing reassuringly against his hand. 

A moment later, their fingers were entangled, a secret hidden by their sides. He hadn't even known Jimmy was so close to him. But, if there had ever been any doubt about who would seek him out in such a way, the vision that greeted him at the touch put it to bed.

He could see the specters.

There were a number close to him, hovering, reaching out. But, the vast majority were streaming across the land to the North and South, away from the two armies. Their wisp-like, translucent bodies twisting in sheer terror as they fled the scene, flowing around their position like water.

He raised the binoculars again, viewing the scene properly with it's latest additions.

The specters were suffering. 

The ones closest to the Silent Croats were bending and twisting to get away, bashing into each other, disorientated, no longer floating free. He found his attention transfixed. There weren't that many of the invisible creatures of angels’ myth, but, it was like watching flies slowly dying in a cloud of insect spray. Contorted and insane.

He watched, feeling nausea rise at the vision. What were the Silent Croats, that they could do this to the normally benign shades of the living. 

Dean frowned.

A realization suddenly struck him as he inspected the scene through the magnified view.

The Silent Croat's bodies were no longer intact. No longer whole.

The skin was dropping and rotting, showing bone and muscle underneath, hair and soft tissues flaking away as if made from old and forgotten rubber.

“Their bodies can't cope with the Grace,” he mused aloud, remembering Raphael's female vessel. Before he took Cas, the host had been corroded by the potent Grace within.

“Is that an advantage?” asked Bobby, lifting his own binoculars, and fiddling with the focus to look at the nearest groups.

“Well. If their legs fall off, then I guess so?” Dean said, not entirely in jest.

He scanned the binoculars across the land to find the demon horde. The specters weren't so afraid of them. True, they moved fast to avoid being near them, but they weren't behaving as if their insides were boiling.

He hummed in thought, finding himself surprisingly calm. 

Squeezing Jimmy's fingers, he let go, trying to get across the message that he would have prefered to remain linked with him. He wanted Jimmy to know that he wasn't just using him for his specific supernatural vision, but that he only needed both hands.

“Any sign of _them_ yet?” Bobby asked, still studying the croats. 

Sam made a noise in the negative.

“Thank God for small mercies,” Bobby grunted. 

“I'll thank God if he shows up to help,” Dean snarked, beginning to turn back down the hill.

“Shit,” Bobby suddenly spat. 

Dean and Sam both demanded to know what had Bobby swearing so vehemently at the same time, as they put their binoculars back up to their faces.

“Those fuckers are strong, far stronger than regular ol' croats. I just watched one tear out a freaking tree that was in it's path.” Bobby's voice was incredulous.

Sam swore under his breath.

“Well, at least we know they're dumb then,” Jimmy suddenly spoke up from Dean's other side, making Sam and Bobby turn to look at him with matching expressions of question on their faces. “Why didn't it just walk around?”

Bobby snorted while Dean whispered “Son of a bitch,” a little wonderingly, a smile touching his lips. 

“Well observed, Jimmy,” Sam said, nodding at the man past Dean, a stiff expression on his face.

Dean looked away from Sam and back out at the overwhelming display before them. He bit his lip wondering what had pissed Sam off so much, that even with the armies of two archangels massing, he could still sound like a little bitch. Why it was always Jim that seemed to set him off?

“So, what do we do?” Bobby asked breaking Dean from his worried thoughts about his brother. 

He shrugged and turned to walk down the slope to their bivouac, horses and men waiting anxiously, hidden just out of sight of the battlefield over the hill.

Ellen was at the base of the slope ready to cast another location spell if they decided they needed to. Dean took a moment to actually consider it. On the surface it seemed unnecessary, with Lucier's and Raphael's armies on a colliding trajectory. But, the archangels had yet to be seen. They could, quite literally, be anywhere.

Dean stilled, eyes on the ground from the moment they arrived among the others. Every able bodied man and woman from the camp had joined them. Not one of them had complained about the three day ride, the cold, or their potentially imminent deaths. Dean suddenly felt a rush of warmth towards these people. Civilians, regular men and women, who had so easily agreed to give up everything to come and help save the world.

“Why don't we just split the angel now?” Jimmy asked, voice a low, assured murmur, his determined, mournful expression too easy to read. 

Everyone looked up at Dean, question in their eyes.

It _was_ the plan, but Dean hadn't considered it, not yet, not now. Not without knowing where Raphael was.

He figured they were too far away to take advantage of the fall out, or that it just wouldn't work without the archangel in sight. 

There were maybe just over a hundred people in front of him. And, not all of them were proficient with a blade, or gun. But there were hundreds of demons, hundreds of croats. If they took out Raphael now, they ran the risk of losing Castiel to the armies descending upon each other.

“Your Castiel mightn't make it, son,” Bobby said kindly to Jimmy, voicing Dean’s thoughts. But Dean looked up at his wording, wondering what the old man knew. He had always been a perceptive bastard.

But now was not the time to think or care about that.

“We need to get closer,” Dean said, looking straight at Jimmy, hoping he knew it wasn't a rejection of his idea. Briefly, he glanced at the circle of the camp leaders, too.

“We can't risk Cas getting swamped once we kill Raphael. We need to know where they are before we do the spell.” Jimmy nodded solemnly in understanding.

“Yeah, and if you're going to go ahead with this terrible plan,” Gabriel chipped in, as he seemed to appear from nowhere, “which it is, by the way. Terrible. We need Sasquatch here on hand for the piece of soul to jump into.”

“What!?” Both Dean and Sam yelled, heads whipping around to face the irritating angel.

“Look. You want to tear apart an angel's Grace? You have to put the pieces somewhere.” Gabriel's features were tight, irritated. “We can leave one inside Castiel; he's of a strong enough blood line, but the only other vessel nearby that could hold _half an archangel_ without exploding, is Sammy here. You're not talking about a cherub being split into twenty parts and shoved into some poor sons of bitches here, you want to _halve_ an archangel and be able to function? It needs to be Sammy.”

Sam looked mollified, but Dean was incensed. Not Sam. Not his brother.

“Why not me? I'm a vessel?”

Gabriel looked shifty, shuffling a little on the spot before answering. “Well, you are and you aren't, and either way you shouldn't have Raphael all up inside ya.”

His darting eyes fell on Jimmy briefly before explaining. “You're the Shepherd.” He seemed to find himself at a loss for words a moment. “You might reject the piece. And I think it could rebound back into Castiel. Potentially killing him.”

Dean scowled and turned away, before looking over to Sam.

They didn't need to exchange words. Dean was too done to argue any longer. They all had to make sacrifices. If Sam agreed, Dean couldn't, wouldn't stop him. Not any longer.

“Okay,” Sam answered, making Dean close his eyes a moment, despite his resolve, stuffing the fear and pain down into the same place his fear for Castiel and Jimmy was now hidden.

“So. We need to be closer, and to know where our archangel is huh?” Bobby asked scratching under his baseball cap.

Gabriel answered with a, “You got it!”

“What about Lucifer?” Sam asked, pointing out the obvious flaw in their plan.

“Let me and Dean-o worry about that!” chirped Gabriel, before grabbing hold of Dean's arm. Dean, on instinct, or for balance, even he wasn't sure, managed to reach out and grab Jimmy's hand before Gabriel zapped them out of their plane of existence.

“That,” Dean began, swallowing hard as they popped back into the real world, “is still fucking horrible.” Jimmy, next to him hummed agreement.

“Well, if you hadn't brought Perky here along for the flight, it would have gone a lot more smoothly.” Dean just grunted and watched with amusement as Jimmy's face twisted in disgust at the nickname.

Gabriel smirked, before his face fell, looking serious, his voice smooth and dark.

“You are the Shepard, Dean.”

“So you keep telling me,” he grumbled, kicking at the cold mud at his feet, listening to the murmurs of his friends and family, just out of eye line around the hill.

“It's an obscure legend, dumbo, just like the, what did you name them? Specters?” Jimmy nodded. “The angels have mostly forgotten it, it seemed—ludicrous, to be honest, but here you are,” Gabriel stated with interest gleaming in his eyes. Dean felt as if he had been placed under a microscope.

“You, my little monkey man, can control them!”

Dean looked up frowning. “I can't even see them.”

Gabriel hummed his assent, “No, but  _he_ can. Actually, no one can, but him, and his delightfully identical  _friend_ . I might name them the torches. Or the lamps. I can't decide which has the better ring to it.”

Dean nearly growled in frustration but bit his tongue, feeling Jimmy's hand rest on the small of his back. The touch was warm and comfortable, and thankfully, not skin on skin. He didn't want to see his supposed charges just then.

“Listen to me,” Gabriel finally said, all joviality slipping from him. “You can control them. They could be powerful, they could fight for you, or, better yet, they could inhabit a vessel, many hundreds of them, all inside one body. That vessel could be more powerful than you could imagine, way more than me, or a Silent Croat, or a demon. It could be powerful enough to rival Lucifer.”

Gabriel's face was intense, his amber eyes gleaming, and Dean, God help him, decided he believed the creature.

Gabriel grinned widely, clearly sensing Dean's acceptance somehow. “Okay. Good.”

-

Dean and Jimmy walked together back to the gathered camp, the sound of horses and people loud and easy to follow. Dean's head was full with thoughts of what Gabriel had said.

But, the more he thought about it, the more worried he became. He and Jimmy had both questioned Gabriel on how he was supposed to direct the ethereal and normally intangible specters. He couldn't see them, unless Jimmy helped, he couldn't touch them, order them, speak to them, or get any other reaction than that of a moth to a flame. 

It had been demoralising, but Gabriel had shrugged, saying he didn’t know anything else. 

Jimmy had exploded at him, screaming that he was a pathetic waste of power if all he did was sit back and watch. Even Dean had found himself taking a step or two back from the irate and disgusted man, showing a fury Dean had never expected.

Gabriel had eventually promised he would do all he could himself to stop Lucifer, if it came to it, if they failed. He would sacrifice himself.

Dean had scoffed, neither believing the angel, nor thinking it would work, even if he didn't let them down. If Lucifer survived, then the world would end. The human’s camps couldn't survive indefinitely. Every year they lost far more people than they saved.

Dean had worked out at one point that they could survive maybe another five years before they were too poorly protected to survive an attack. And croats had an uncanny ability to sense desperation.

Back with his men, Dean felt that desperation swell. He truly didn't want to fail his friends, his family. He looked to Jimmy, and imagined the identical looking, but so very different, Castiel standing beside him. He didn't wish to fail his lovers either.

He sidled up to Sam, Bobby, and Ellen, where they stood around the ingredients for a spell laid carefully on the ground. Everyone else was kicking the mud, killing time as he slotted himself and Jimmy into the loose semi circle. 

“Locating 'im,” Bobby grunted, looking up as he added the last ingredient, yet another precious map, to the pan. “Finished your little tete-a-tete?” he asked irritably. 

Dean just grunted, unsure what to tell him.

He watched as Sam started reading through the instructions and complex chains of Latin for the other spell, the splitting spell.

Dean grabbed Bobby's arm, getting his attention, and pulled him a few steps from the others as Ellen plucked the singed map from the dying flame. “Look, I don't know what we have to work with. Gabriel has a plan and he seems convinced that it’s going to work. And, God knows I'll try my best, but it’s hardly fool proof. We need something as backup. 

“Can you prepare _two_ splitting spells?”

Bobby looked sceptical, but nodded hesitantly, his intelligent eyes cutting through everything Dean had said, listening to the unspoken words, dissecting their meaning. “You don't think whatever Gabe has planned will work and you wanna try splitting Lucifer? Didn't we decide he's too strong?” His voice was soft and kind. Dean hated it.

Dean nodded. “We did, but you're right. I will die trying out there, you know I will, but if I don't manage this, tearing apart the Devil, putting his twisted Grace in whatever can take it, and them gankin' them— That’s going to be our only hope. This goes beyond us.” 

He huffed out a sigh, the realization finally hitting him, _hard,_ that they would be lucky if a single member of the camp walked away from this.

They had barely discussed what would happen to the vessels that Raphael’s Grace was stuffed into— If they had to split Lucifer too…

He scowled, hating himself, knowing he was the worst excuse for a leader his camp could have possibly got. His only consolation was that he knew he was just as willing to give up his own life as that of his friends, family, lovers and followers to clean up the Winchester’s messes. It was on him to do that. To save the world.

He decided to use that moment to say a silent goodbye to this man who had been better than a father to him. In the privacy of his head, he offered a goodbye to Ellen, Jo, Chuck and Ash too, true friends. With a trip of his heart, he let Sammy go too, knowing it was the only way to get through this. With a hard swallow he accepted that it was the end of the road, for him, for Jimmy, and Castiel. 

They had to save the world. He had to allow the very few people on this planet who mattered to him to go, if it meant saving the entire planet.

He cleared his throat and gritted his teeth, accepting that they would probably  _all_ die. 

He hoped the payoff would be their success.

Bobby nodded. The understanding was heartbreaking on his face. When he spoke, his voice was tight, choked.

He slapped Dean on the shoulder, pulling him into a short hug. “Come on son, let's get these protection charms sorted and grab, well,” he pulled a face, “everybody's DNA.”


	15. Chapter 15

Dean was angry. Sweating, breathing hard through the exorcism he was reciting at top speed while he wrenched his blade from yet another demon's neck.

They hadn’t even finished the God forsaken splitting spell yet, and they were overrun. Lucifer's appearance on the field had decimated their chances of remaining unseen and unnoticed, when he immediately sent his demons to the scattered members of Dean's camp.

Gabriel had actually been helpful, Dean was man enough to admit. He had been surprised with Gabriel's offer to transport a number of the camp in small groups of three or so around the fields and cemetery where the demons and Silent Croats gathered. At the center of their wide circle, Raphael had stood alone, holding court, as he waited for his brother, Lucifer. 

Yet now, with Lucifer taunting Raphael, the camp’s small groups were having to fight, and hard. Too hard, Dean thought, as he slashed at a demon who had been about to leap at Sam. Their plan was suffering.

He, Jimmy, and Sam stood at a small outcrop of stunted trees not far from the cemetery entrance, while Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and Jackson were hidden in a rut in the ground, just within their sight. Another team were hidden in a ditch off to their other side. A handful of the camp were left at their bivouac, watching the horses, ready to offer help to any who needed it.

Bobby and Ellen were working furiously on the spell as Jo and Jackson fought off the demons who had appeared almost out of nowhere, teeth bared and blades out. Dean cursed that he couldn't help protect them. The whole plan hinged on that damn spell. He scowled, beginning the exorcism all over again as fresh demons approached. He kept half an eye on Bobby's progress, wondering why he had allowed himself to be swayed by Gabriel's proposal that smaller groups would be better, less intrusive, better able to surround their prey.

The only thanks he had to give were that the demons seemed weak, being killed with their simple iron blades, or the exorcism that he and Sam were chanting on repeat. Jimmy was fighting hard, putting his newly acquired skills to good use, giving just as good as he got.

But there were simply too many demons. They were on the verge of being outmatched.

Dean grunted as he lunged forward, ripping upward with his dull blade, giving Jimmy a moment's respite before he was attacked by another demon. Dean felt the panic rise, he couldn't help it, finding himself fending off two of the black eyed bastards at once.

Dean shuddered as he took out one, Sam hacking the other in the back of the neck before spinning to deal with with own attackers. The creatures were grotesque, a fact that hadn't been obvious through the binoculars. Many of the demons were grievously wounded, limbs missing, terrible head wounds. Some were blatantly corpses, even before being taken, skin waxy, eyes rotting, stinking of decomposition.

Their weakness was more than that though.

Dean began chanting the damned exorcism once again, feeling grateful that Lucifer must have just emptied Hell onto Earth, taking the newest, most accessible souls; the weakest. An exorcism like the one he was panting through would not have made an older demon even twitch, let alone fell two or more at a time. They barely had any mojo, squealing in agony as the sharpened iron ripped through their rancid frames.

“Honestly boys,” Gabriel's voice sighed from close by, but Dean was too caught up trying to pull his blade free from a demon's neck to even be surprised by the angel's abrupt appearance. 

Dean blinked hard; within moments the space surrounding them was clear, not a demon in sight.

Dean instantly searched out Bobby's position, already taking the first step in a run to help fight off Jo’s and Jackson’s attackers, until the demons surrounding them too, disappeared, one at a time, but almost so quickly that it seemed simultaneous. 

“Wha?” Jimmy asked through heavy breaths as Dean stalled his run. He turned to find Jimmy wiping blood from his strained face.

“So that did happen then. Good,” Dean croaked out, catching his breath. Dean finally felt as if they truly owed Gabriel.

“Well, he's irritating, but at least he's helpful,” Sam commented, echoing Dean's thoughts as he pulled himself up straight, panting as heavily as Dean and Jim. 

They all tensed as they remembered where they were and what they were doing. They weren't off the hook. There were still demons closing in, they still had a spell to finish, Lucifer still needed stopping.

Dean huffed out a breath trying to refocus, trying to stop wondering what Gabriel had done with the demons. He turned, leaving Sam and Jim to cover his back, in order look through the twisted trees toward the cemetery. In the center of the graveyard he could just make out the form of Castiel. 

He was beautiful, ethereal, but more—

Without an angel in him, Cas looked merely human. Like Jimmy, he was stunning, imposing, forceful, but still _just_ human. With an angel's Grace filling him up, moving him around, he exuded a power that frightened Dean. 

How had he been willing to face this creature before? When they first set eyes upon Raphael, how had he not been quaking, desperate to run?

Maybe before, his subconscious helpfully supplied, it hadn’t been _Cas._ He hadn't known or even particularly cared about the vessel. But now, he could see the difference. He could see the awkwardness of movement, see mannerisms that weren't Castiel's. He could practically see the burning Grace flowing through him, the madness, the desperation, the hate, the fear and the grief.

He scowled, turning away. He didn't even bother to check on Lucifer. They knew him. He would talk, he loved the sound of his own voice. Raphael was the element that needed taking care of.

He looked across to Bobby and Ellen once again. He found Jo and Jackson on guard as Bobby carefully enunciated his way through long lines of a language Gabriel had helpfully told them was Enochian; the tongue of angels.

Once the words were spoken, all Ellen would need to do would be to drop the DNA of the chosen vessels into the pan. The contents of which were burning a steady green under their noses. If they had the spell correct, and Dean dared not think what would happen if they had it wrong, the Grace of the angel whose name was spoken, would be wrenched apart. It would be torn from the original vessel and thrown, a piece at a time, into the waiting bodies.

Everyone had silently agreed not to mention the fact that they were using Jimmy's DNA, his strand of dark brown hair and not Castiel's.

Dean was regretting their rushed departure from the camp, having tracked Lucifer’s and Raphael’s movements, and found them bearing down on the same point on the map. Stull Cemetery. They simply hadn’t had enough time to research, to plan— They had just had to make their best guesses—and Dean's heart had clenched as they had announced that they thought they might have to kill the vessels holding Raphael’s Grace. That they couldn’t see another way.

Jimmy, beautiful, brave, beyond perfect, had nodded grimly and accepted their fate; his and Castiel’s.

And now, with Gabriel's earlier words, Dean was chewing his lip bloody, worried that the Grace might kill either Castiel, Jimmy, or both, if it were to snap back, having been put into something— _wrong._ He had made himself accept the possibility of their deaths, but the possibility that this might not work? He couldn’t allow himself to consider it.

He turned, the tang of blood in his mouth, to watch the slowly advancing line of demons, working their way forward on broken legs, with shaky movements. He stood ready, just like Bobby's guards.

Dean flinched as a green flash of light snapped his attention away only a moment later, jerking his head around to look to Bobby and Ellen. The pan was no longer gently smouldering, but hissing and popping, sending pulse after pulse of green light into the bright sky, lighting the ditch with an uncomfortable glow.

“Is that—?” Dean began, hastily turning to Sam and Jimmy. Sam only shrugged looking wild and unsure.

“Fuck!” Jimmy ground out as his knees buckled. Dean wanted to leap forward, to help, but Sam gasped in pain right alongside him and dropped to the floor as well. Dean swore loudly as he floundered, not knowing where to look, who to help. Through the skeletons of trees he could see Castiel on his hands and knees too, clutching his chest and shaking his head.

“Sammy! Jimmy—” Dean finally croaked out, his chest too tight, too filled with pain, watching so many of those he loved hurting. He froze briefly as those thoughts filled his head. Knowing he had let them go, let them all go—and he had only just realized that he had fallen for Jimmy, was in love with Castiel—

“It's—we're fine,” Jimmy gasped, starting to pushing himself upright, Sam right behind him. 

Dean swallowed down his thoughts.“You—you are?” he stuttered, panic and loss still gripping his chest tight, unsure what to believe, how to feel. Desperate to have Jimmy _and_ Castiel survive, unwilling to let his heart feel what his eyes were seeing.

Jimmy nodded. “I can feel him. Raphael.” Dean saw Jim swallow hard, looking nauseous. 

“He's trying to break free,” Sam put in, also looking sick, but straightening his shoulders, turning to look to Castiel, who was also pushing himself to his feet, looking disorientated, staggering a little.

“Oh shit.”

Dean's initial bolt of fear and worry was already fading, only to be replaced by another. He watched, impotent, too far away, as every Silent Croat in the graveyard stopped fighting with Lucifer's demons, or attacking Lucifer himself, and turned to Castiel, turned to the body that had formerly hosted their owner, their master.

Dean felt sick as he saw the leers on their rotting faces.

It was time.

Dean pushed between his brother and Jimmy, walking quickly around the dead trees that had given them cover.

He eyed the heaving form of Castiel as the man pushed forward in one terrifyingly smooth movement and sliced clean through the neck of a croat that had been closing in.

Even as the body fell, Cas had impaled another on the shining silver blade in his hand.

It really wasn't the time, but he couldn't help finding himself admiring the line's of Castiel's body as he lunged forward yet again, in quick efficient stokes, felling another Silent Croat. He felt his mouth fall open as he watched Castiel kill yet again, spotting a small wisp of pale blue light drift up and away from the corpse. 

At that though, it seemed as if the croats had had enough. The mass of disorganised forms, no longer silent, turned and, almost as one, launched themselves forward, their control gone. They were rabid once more.

Deans jaw snapped up as Castiel was torn from their view.

“We need to go,” Jimmy stated, flat, and emotionless. 

Dean turned to look at him, found his face twitching in an effort to keep calm, or to keep the shard of an archangel contained within himself.

Dean wasn't sure which, and he shuddered at the thought.

He shot a quick look over to Bobby. He swallowed the fear as he saw Ellen and Bobby feverishly resetting the spell ingredients, Jackson fighting off the newest wave of demons, and Jo, lying unmoving, bloody, on the floor.

He banished the image to the back of his mind and broke into a run.

Dean was a fast sprinter, he could only assume it was the Grace feeding strength to their bodies that had Sam and Jim outstripping him within moments of him approaching the bottleneck of the cemetery gates.

Through heavy breaths and a break in the heaving mass of croats, he spotted Castiel. The needle sharp, silver blade was flickering in the weak sunlight as he easily fended off his attackers, spinning and lunging. He was faster, more agile; no doubt Raphael's Grace lent him strength. But, there were still too many, Dean thought, as the gap was closed by more seething bodies.

He was through the gates. Running among the headstones, chasing after Jim and Sam, dodging graves, croats, and demons, trying to get to Cas before he was swamped.

Dean was close enough to see the moment the demons joined the fight.

Rather than all the croats fighting to get to the only human they were interested in, they were now being attacked by Lucifer's creations. 

Dean would have sighed a breath of relief if he didn't need it all for running, and if the air hadn't hitched in his lungs that moment— The moment the body of John Winchester phased into existence right next to Castiel. If only Castiel's reprieve from the croats hadn't been replaced with his horrified expression and certain death, as Lucifer smiled gleefully, the expression sitting oddly on the old man's grizzled features. If only Jim and Sam hadn't disappeared into the throng.

Dean didn't stop running, pushing himself harder. All sound was gone except for the deafening noise of his lungs pulling in air. The desperate attempt to get enough oxygen in order get to Lucifer, to get to Cas, Jimmy, Sam.

-

Jimmy winced as his dull iron blade sliced through the croat's soft, rotting flesh as he fought to get to Castiel and Lucifer, the hot gush of blood over his hand, sickening.

Over the din of the battle, screams, shouts and thumps of flesh of flesh, Lucifer's voice rose.

“You killed my brother?” he crowed, gloating, ecstatic.

The body that used to be that of Dean's father span on the spot in a mockery of a dance making the few specters at his feet writhe. His voice was similar to Dean’s, but gruffer, and broken, like he had never learned how to make the vocal chords work properly. His movement was light, too light for a man that heavy set.. Jim felt a twist in his gut at the thought that that, _that_ might have been Castiel. He was grateful for a moment. Until he remembered the meeting in the dilapidated room, where they had last met Lucifer. Where Dean’s blanched face had mirrored his own feelings now—

Jimmy was still trying to fight toward his brother, Sam at his side, when the Devil spoke again, a grin in his voice that made him shudder. “Now, you do know, he was your only hope of winning, right? I mean, without him...” 

Jim snarled at Lucifer's words, incensed, furious that this, _this angel,_ this sickening reminder of his escaped fate, had the presumption to think they had no hope, that they weren't a threat. 

The fallen angel continued, though, oblivious to Jimmy's anger, swaying his hips idly. “You do realize I'll have to punish you? He wasn't yours to kill.”

Jimmy finally broke through the crowd, the flesh just sliding from the bones of the demon he had tried to pull from his path, as it collapsed in the dirt.

He was within sight of the Devil.

Lucifer shrugged at his own announcement, with a smile on his bloodless lips, a terrifying vision of an older Dean, wrong, cruel, unfeeling, and unearthly. 

Jimmy could feel the shard of Grace within him roar in powerful fury at the angel’s words, at his threat.

With that, a realization hit him.

Even with the unconscious Grace still thrumming so strongly within himself, Castiel, and Sam, it was clear that Lucifer could not sense it. With a reaction that palpable screaming against his words, there was no way the Devil could not have reacted. Yet, he had not.

_They had an advantage_ .

“He was my brother, and _you—_ ” Lucifer broke off, and Jimmy didn't need to see, to know when his gaze fell on Castiel, he could _feel_ it. 

He could  _feel_ Castiel's reaction, linked by a shared Grace. Could feel the horror, the disgust, the fear, and the bravery rising up to overpower it all with bravado.

“And I'm going to start with you, my little worm,” Lucifer continued, eyes fixed on Cas. “You can't rip apart the archangel you were built to hold without suffering for it.”

Jimmy looked up and caught Sam's eye from where they were both hemmed in, ringed by the now leaderless Silent Croats. They _felt_ Castiel's surge of fatalism and dark amusement before they heard his voice, dry, cutting. “But I wasn't built for Raphael, Lucifer. I was built for your ugly ass.”

Jimmy felt it was almost wrong of the universe that silence didn't descend, that you couldn't have heard a pin drop—that over the noise of battle, of metal striking skin and tearing flesh, the only noise to surface was Dean's loud snort of laughter from somewhere behind them.

Jimmy whipped around as a new voice cut through the broken tension. “Huh. I like him!” Gabriel. He was hidden by the writhing mass of mutilated flesh and rotting demons, even the semi-transparent specters, but he was instantly recognizable across a hundred battle fields; irritating and extremely welcome.

“Brother? _Gabriel?_ ” Lucifer hissed, transfixed in disgusted fascination. “Is that even you? What have you done to your wings?”

The two creatures, both more _and_ less than archangels, began circling. John Winchester's awkwardly smirking face mov ed out of sight as Gabriel's formerly humorous one came in to view. Bracketing them, surrounding them all, were the dead, a wall of dancing darting demons, and the just-there forms of the writhing, pain filled specters. 

Castiel stood panting, a pile of dead croats and demons at his feet. He held a dripping blade in his hand, blood smeared on his face and up to his elbows. There was a wild eyed look of grim satisfaction mixed with fear, taken too far, smothering his handsome features.

He was the most beautiful thing Jimmy had ever seen.

“I don't need to explain what I did to you, _brother._ ” Gabriel's voice brought Jim's thoughts skittering back. “I did what I had to do.” His tone was full of righteous power, and Jimmy, for the first time, felt truly afraid of him.

The power these creatures had far outstripped anything he could even imagine. He may be close to death, whether they won or lost, but it made them no less terrifying. He could only be grateful that he had been spared Henry Winchester’s fate, that he did not have to spend eternity locked inside of his body with a pitifully petty, childish, and powerful being like an angel.

Jimmy's thoughts halted as Lucifer let loose a feral screech, and launched himself at Gabriel.

Behind them, the wall of rotting black eyed demons suddenly cascaded in, flinging themselves at the god-like-angel.

The action spurred the croats into motion too, throwing themselves, once more, on Jim and Sam, but mostly on Castiel.

“No!” Jim screamed, beating aside the melting faces of worn out Silent Croats in a desperate attempt to get to Castiel. He could hear the clash of metal on metal from where the two angels now fought, hear the wet thump of blades hitting home, and the squeals as flesh tore. 

He fought his way to Cas, where the leaderless servants were pressing in, the croats somehow after revenge, or simply hungry for meat, specifically Castiel's. Jimmy knew he was only succeeding against the enormous odds because of the Grace burning under his skin, lighting up his movements with power and speed.

He could feel that tenuous connection with Sam and Cas, glowing faintly in his mind. He knew they were fighting, knew they weren’t giving in, giving up, but anything more? He couldn’t tell.

He stumbled into a break in the press, hoping to see Dean, finally comprehending the man had never broken through the wall of creatures surrounding them. There was only one lone figure, panting; too tall. Sam.

He had cut a hole in the throng, their bodies littering the ground thickly, leaving a path clear to where the fight was thickest, where Castiel must, by now, be overpowered.

With his chest clenching, he and Sam pushed through, pulling the weakening croats and pathetic demons out of their their way, striking a wide path toward Castiel, even as they knew they needed to rescue Dean too.

Dean, the only one who seemingly had the power to kill the Devil.

They fought through that final barrier, Jimmy's blade pushing so far into a demon that his fist met spine through it's rotting gut. 

Beyond, too late, Jimmy saw Castiel finally fall.

-

Dean pushed through the mass of animal-like creatures, all black eyes and flesh hung bone. He had thought he would have had to fight harder than Jimmy and Sam, once he had seen them disappear into the writhing mess of bodies, not having their Graced up strength. But, the demons and croats were less concerned with him. He was still exhausted, and jealous of the ease with which they had with dismembered anything in their way. But he wasn't fighting as desperately for his own life as he had expected to, on the periphery of the Devil's fight.

He finally stumbled into the small corpse-filled clearing he had been aiming for, the space that had kept growing around the bobbing head of his brother where he fought. He offered up an apology briefly for always teasing Sam. His brother's height had finally become useful.

His eyes landed on Jimmy, bloody but whole, wrapped around a heaving Castiel, slumped on the ground.

Sam was hovering over them, a long silver blade in his hand, panting, but efficiently taking out anything that approached. His brother's face melted into an expression of relief as his eyes met Dean's.

Dean didn't spare him more than a quick nod though, telling his brother he was fine, before skidding to his knees. He didn't care about Lucifer or Gabriel where he could see them fighting, or anything else, only needing to see for himself that Castiel was all right.

The moment he wrapped both Castiel and Jimmy in his arms, listening to their ragged breaths and the small moan of relief as he held them, he _felt_ the presence of the  specters.

He forgot even the feel of the two warm, alive bodies in his arms in that moment. He felt as if his eyes were dragged open for him.

Thick in the air teemed floating specters, hundreds, thousands of them. It seemed as if the air was water stained with milk.

He flinched, but held on, watching in awe as the wall of demons, pathetic, yet still more than powerful enough to kill _him,_ were held back by specters. The white mass of invisible creatures were taking hit after hit, even being destroyed, but pushing their attackers away, _his attackers._

They were protecting him.

Protecting him wasn't all they were doing. Many, thick on the ground and the air were contorted in unmoving terror. Their excuses for feet were rooted to the ground and they squirmed on the spot in front of the Devil. 

The air was thick with the crowding, amorphous forms, too close, and Dean gasped, finding it difficult to catch his breath. They even had their blob like arms, reaching, desperate to touch, yet never quite meeting his skin.

He had the distinct feeling they were begging.

He held tighter, pulling Jimmy's frozen frame into him alongside Castiel's quaking one, whether from exhaustion, fear, or just sensory overload, he didn't have time to wonder, as, suddenly, he knew what the previously benign specters wanted of him.

He took a breath, not daring to look to Sam, because he had already accepting losing him.

He had already accepted loosing himself.

For some reason, he knew this was the end. He would never come back from this. He would never really be himself again. Sam, Bobby, Jim, Cas— He was happy to have known them.

He swallowed hard, tightening his grip on the two men, for strength, in thanks, as an apology.

He squeezed his eyes closed, hard, and denied the tears that fell.

He took a breath and opened his mind.

He invited them in.

-

Dean had never been possessed.

Wards, charms, protections, all from an early age— He had never had another being use his body, taking his autonomy from him.

This felt nothing like the stories others had told, others taken by demons, or by angels.

He still knew who he was, entirely conscious and cognizant. And, although he had yet to try and move, he knew he had full use of his mind and body.

He felt full. His body overflowing it's living bounds. Constantly expanding. And it wasn't stopping, _they_ weren't stopping. He could feel, _could see_ , them flowing into him. He knew they were almost grateful, both those of heaven and those of hell, to come together within him, to become him.

They wanted to be shown the way.

“I—” he heard Castiel start.

“It can't be,” Jimmy whispered, their voices close, but Dean's vision was just white now, too many shades of souls pouring into him. 

All he could hear was a rushing noise.

Even his own heartbeat was obliterated by the torrent.

Seconds or hours later, Dean staggered blindly to his feet.

He could feel Castiel's and Jimmy's hands on him, supporting him, but his vision was still obscured, the flow of specters slowing, but only enough for him to begin picking out flashes of individual forms in the solid mass, an arm, a blob-like face.

He wondered briefly what Jimmy and Cas were seeing. Or whether his own vision was this now and only this, would he be able to see at all once they stopped touching him. Whether he would ever be able to see again, if this blindness was permanent, if the specters had overwhelmed his body. Whether it mattered, as he was a dead man walking anyway.

He felt his knees weaken, hands tightening on his arms, hands around his waist. “Dean!” A gruff voice sounded by his ear, and he smiled, knowing it was Castiel. Jimmy's voice was lighter, smoother, but equally beautiful.

“Dean, come on, stand, please, we need to to stand.” That was Jimmy. He sounded worried, scared. Dean couldn't understand why, his eyes just tracking the ever slowing movement of the specters into him.

He huffed out a relieved sigh as hard, solid shapes began to peek through that white haze full of soft edges.

He wasn't blind.

“Sam!”

Dean flinched at the sound—the name bringing him crashing back to earth. Sam. Sammy, his brother. Someone shouted his name! Fighting, they were fighting the God damned Devil and he had— What? Zoned out watching the flowing mass of see-through beings dive into his body? 

“Fuck,” he whispered, still only able to pick out the occasional tangible shape through the mist.

“Fuck!” he blurted out as he saw Sam's tall form running away from him through a parting in the waves of specters towards the shout. 

That had been Gabriel's voice. Gabriel, scared, calling for help. Calling for Sam.

He needed to snap out of this, he needed his eyes. He needed to fight Lucifer.

_Hurry,_ he called in the silence of his own head, the word tinged with pleading. 

He needed the specters to be done. Now.

They seemed to hear him, and he almost recoiled from the mental barrage of hundreds more ghosts of ghosts flinging themselves into him. 

He grunted with the weight of them hitting him, and those ever present hands held him fast as his vision whited out once more.

“Fuck. What are we going to do?” he heard Jimmy asking Cas. Dean grinned despite the circumstance as Jim's mouth voiced the deep swear word once again.

“Gabe!” Came Sam's voice, far away—

“We— We are going to fight,” Dean finally said, answering Jimmy's question. His voice was rough and tired sounding as he blinked away the last of the white shapes tumbling into him. 

“Dean,” Castiel ground out again, his voice full of hurt and worry.

“I— I'm fine,” he answered the unasked question, taking a deep breath, stepping forward from their support. 

He noticed no difference as their hands left him.

There were all but no specters left to blink in to invisibility. They were all inside. Dean could feel them. A powerhouse just waiting, thrumming with unspent energy.

He paced forward again on unsteady feet. He felt as if taking a tumble would set him off like a bomb. Perhaps that's how he could take out Lucifer.

Dean felt a crashing wave of foreign emotion flow through him. _No!_ He shook his head, disorientated by the  specters' warning.

Through the slight spinning of his vision he finally allowed his eyes to land on Lucifer.

And on their surroundings.

While he had been busy swallowing specters, Sam and Gabriel had been busy protecting him and his two sentinels, fending off Lucifer, croats, and demons.

A field of corpses surrounded them.

On the edges, demons and croats hovered, leaping forward occasionally to try and kill, but even Jimmy and Castiel's distracted defence was enough to fend them off.

They were weak and broken, and clearly scared of Lucifer who was playing with Gabriel and Sam. Scared of anything with a weapon. They were failing.

Dean's brain caught up with what he was seeing.

_Lucifer was playing with Gabriel and Sam. With Sam._

He didn't even have the time to shout, to take a step before Castiel was restraining him, his arms wrapped tight about him.

“You can't help anyone by joining that fight, Dean. Lucifer if having fun, yes, he’s trying to hurt them, but he is distracted. He thinks he's won. _And Sam is filled with Angel’s Grace_. They are not losing, they are not dead. I can feel them fighting, Dean. Your brother is n ot dead. You need to use that power that is in you, and you need to use it _now_.”

Dean growled his dissent at Cas, watching Sam take another hit of Lucifer's weapon against his own slim silver blade. Despite Sam simply shaking off the blow, Dean struggled against Castiel’s grip. But, felt the tide rise within him once again; the specters agreeing with Castiel’s words.

It was hard to disobey something so huge, something so overwhelming. So many voices all calling for the same thing, but he didn't understand what—

Lucifer, wearing his father's face, suddenly spun to focus on Dean, his eyes flashing that inhuman red. 

“So freakin' tacky,” came a croaking voice, and he realized, with surprise, that it was his own. It came accompanied by a snort and a huff of laughter, one from either side of him.

“Oh,” Dean grunted out, realizing what he had done. “Shit.”

The eyes flashed red again, a grin, then Dean was bodily lifted up by his core and sent sailing through the air. It was peaceful, he thought, silent. From up there he could see for miles. The ground was milky-white at the horizon, like the tide coming in.

Then he hit the ground.

Dean's eyes sprung open. He knew he hadn't been out long.

The darkness receded and left him in surprisingly little pain, hands on his face, his neck, his chest.

“Guys? He's fine—” came Gabriel's voice, harsh and strained, far away, desperate.

He looked up into three worried faces, Sam, Jimmy and Castiel. 

“He's right. I'm fine,” he gasped out. He felt buoyed up, light, and knew somehow, as he pushed himself upright, to Lucifer's laughter, that the specters within had protected him. That and the mat of dead, rotting bodies underneath him. He scowled in disgust as he used a mostly solid, if flesh free, skull to push himself up.

Lucifer came back into his view, Gabriel holding a fighting stance just in front of him. 

“Brother, move out of my way, you are a pathetic and mutilated shadow of what you once were.” Lucifer's voice rose regally, a distorted mockery of John’s. “I could make you great again.” 

He paused looking past Gabriel to Dean, Sam and the others. “If only you would give up on these—bacteria,” he snarled, and Dean stiffened, tension running fast down his spine. 

He could feel the teeming of the specters, those thousands held within his body, and those few, beginning to appear once more around them, trickling between the baying crowds surrounding them. They were screaming their need to do something—

He stepped forward, almost numbly, ignoring the grasping hands trying to hold him back.

One step, two, five, twenty. He took his place shoulder to shoulder with Gabriel, lending support, begging for help, he wasn't sure.

It wasn't enough though, the specters wanted more from him, but he still didn't know what.

“Naahh,” Gabriel finally replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Annoying as they are, they're a helluva lot more fun than the Earth you want to create. Perfect Luci, yeah, but devoid of industry, of goodness, of laughter. What would be the point?”

Dean felt as if everything was slowed.

He felt he could sense the moment that Gabriel's rebuttal sank into Lucifer's psyche. He knew the moment the Devil realized he had lost Gabriel for good, that the golden eyed archangel would continue to fight alongside Dean and the others. 

He winced as he watched Lucifer's face crumple into a sneer. Flinched as his arm flew up in one smooth motion. 

Dean whipped around _before_ the wave of power swept Sam, Castiel and Jimmy off their feet and  into the air.

Or—only swept Jimmy up, tumbling through the air like a broken doll while all else was still, silent; frozen in shock.

Ten foot high white sparks erupted from the air surrounding Sam and Castiel, flames biting at the sky, the smell of sulphur and ozone sharp, hot and sizzling.

They swayed with the force, but held their ground, fear and shock on their bloodless faces.

Lucifer screamed his incomprehension, his confusion, high pitched and unearthly.

Time snapped back to normal with Gabriel's laughter. “They're built for you, Luci!” he sniggered, turning back to face his brother. “You can't hurt them, not with your Grace. You really have gotten stupid, all that time you spent locked away in Hell.”

Dean kept his gaze fixed on Castiel and Sam, seeing the disbelief and wonder on their faces, ignoring the misty wall of specters encroaching, calling to him. 

Castiel and Sam were immune to Lucifer's Grace?

That might have been useful to know eight years ago.

He almost turned to scream his rage at Gabriel, that they could have killed the Devil before the world started to end, but his eye was caught by a still, dark form, lying twisted on the hard, stunted grass.

“Jimmy,” he said; flat, furious.


	16. Chapter 16

Dean flicked his gaze back to Lucifer, a seething hate pooling in his belly, aimed both at the angels and within himself too, at the burning souls preventing him from going to Jimmy.

It was ironic, Dean thought, that the specters chose that moment to finally make him understand. To make it clear what exactly he needed to do, just at the moment that he wanted to run, to leave, to sprint to Jimmy's side. He wanted to scream how unfair it was, Jimmy was hurt, possibly dead because of him, because he had stood with Gabriel against the Devil. 

He screamed internally, yelling, riling against the specters' wishes. It was his fault. He had to make sure Jim was okay. 

He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to turn his own body around. But he couldn't— The specters filling him held him fast, so too did the wall of the frustrated, convulsing souls.

Dean collapsed to his knees with the effort of trying to move his own body where it would not go.

He found himself kneeling in muddy, yellow grass at Lucifer's feet. He wasn't sure if he even cared any more. Yet, he growled—howled in fear, in hate, in seething disgust at the world, at Lucifer and at Raphael. At his father and grandfather. At everything that had led him, day by day, from long before his birth, to this moment. To having to sacrifice himself, just as he had found two people who could truly care for him, just as he had realized how desperately he didn't want to leave his brother or his family; Bobby, Ellen—

He  _knew_ that he wasn't coming back.

He knew, and it broke him.

He knew—

The agony he felt rose up, pure misery, screaming forth from him. He roared and  _hurled_ the remnants of spirits from himself. Ripping them out and throwing them from him in an explosion of desperation. It was over. Everything he had fought for. He could never know if they won. He had lost Sam, his family, his prospective lovers. Everything was taken from him as thousands of shades left him, leaving his vision nothing but a glaring, blinding white stream of nothingness. 

He felt them, each being, each person that had been, each evil monster, turned by their own hand or another's, felt as they flowed through him, felt them as they hit that teeming wall of new specters that had flowed in like the sea, unending, unstoppable.

He felt the barrage as they connected. It recoiled inside of him like the shock waves of an earthquake, pummelling him, leaving him numb, empty,  _done._

Nothing else existed.

Until  _Nothingness_ existed.

A gap—a hole. His eyes shied away from it, they didn't understand. He knelt there panting, staring, a ragged hole of absence; it wasn't _anything,_ wavering in the air.

An entrance.

_A gate._

His stomach dropped as he realized what he had to do.

He hadn't thought he had any more hope to lose.

Lucifer was dumb struck, just like Gabriel, Castiel and Sam. He didn't need to turn to know that.

He mourned Jimmy, where he lay, knowing he wouldn't be able to see his face one last time. _Choosing_ not to look at the others, he frantically tried to hold them whole and perfect in his memory.

He remembered Jimmy's voice, low and musical.  _“The Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. He is the only one that they will follow, and he is the only one true to them. He must lead them.”_

He must lead them.

He looked at Lucifer again, his father's face suddenly showing a flicker of fear.

Dean's eyes were somehow able to see the multitude of shapeless specters beginning to crowd behind the fallen angel.

Dean grinned, cold and hard. Focused. Accepting.

“The Empty,” Lucifer whispered, as Dean stepped through.

-

Castiel's heart was being torn in two.

Behind him, Jimmy lay unmoving, broken, twisted in a heap on the ground.

In front of him, Dean, a man who he wanted to share his life with, stood in a different place, somewhere _else,_ somewhere he may very well never return from. 

Castiel didn't know if he would ever see either alive again. And, he didn't know who to run to, to help. So, like Sam, like Gabriel, like Lucifer even, he watched.

Dean stepped cautiously backward, his eyes trained completely on Lucifer's red gaze. Cas' heart tripped over itself as Dean took another step, and another, deeper into the nothingness on the other side of the tear in the skin of the world.

He watched as the specters followed Dean. His feet felt rooted to the ground; he was desperate to move, but frozen, unable to. The specters tumbled after Dean, almost gleefully, the first few tripping over the threshold into the void.

Castiel's heart lurched to see them begin to fade almost as soon as they passed the threshold, stepping within that void. Dean noticed, too, making Cas swallow hard. Dean's face paled, then hardened as he realized how little time the specters lasted, and Cas knew he must be wondering how long _he_ had.

Castiel dragged his gaze from Dean. He couldn't look—

Lucifer brow was drawn, confused, slightly apprehensive. His feet were as glued to the ground as Castiel’s still were.

Behind the Devil, crowding in, were wave upon wave of specters.

Lucifer was as unaware of them as anyone else had been when they rose in a trickle around him. He remained oblivious as the flow increased quickly, tumbling around him, cascading, jostling. He was unconscious of the stumbling step forward he took.

Castiel was horrified and awed as the specters thundered silently forward, unstoppable, a force of nature, coursing blindly onwards towards their leader, listening to his call. Dragging the Devil with them.

Lucifer took another step.

And another.

Castiel began to smile grimly as Lucifer's eyes suddenly widened in horror. It was not at the rip in the air, but at his stumbling steps toward it. He had finally noticed he was being compelled forward.

He twisted, trying to turn, but the flow was already too much, too strong, he couldn't walk against the current. 

Castiel's smile stayed fixedly in place.

Gabriel, standing at Castiel's side, flinched and started forward, eyes on his transfixed, now frightened, brother. 

“Oh, no you don't brother, I may not be able to _see_ , but I know what's happening.” Gabe walked carefully toward Lucifer, the specters breaking and flowing around him without hindering his approach. “I won't allow _that,_ ” Gabriel continued, his voice silky smooth.

It was Castiel's turn to be confused, Gabriel clearly seeing something that he could not interpret.

The god turned angel lunged forward, laughing, taking full advantage of Lucifer's constraints. His sword rose in a gloriously swift movement, catching the sunlight at the height of it's arc.

Castiel tracked the curve of the swing and frowned as he realized that the arc would miss Lucifer entirely, sweeping across his back.

He gasped in understanding as he noted the specters. The creatures were reaching out, piled high behind the Devil, covering something he could not see. “They're holding his wings?”

Gabriel flickered out of existence as his sword swung down, hard. He reappeared a heartbeat later, his swing finished, and his blade bloody.

“What are, who—?” Sam asked from close by, his voice strained, choked, his body tensed, ready to jump into the fight.

“The specters,” he huffed out. “They were climbing his wings, pulling at them, covering them! I can't see the wings, so I didn't realize— Lucifer was trying to fly.”

He swallowed, as Gabriel turned away from his brother, a dark, thunderous expression pulling his blood flecked face tight. “And, I think— Gabriel has just made it so that he cannot,” he finished with a mix of grim satisfaction and nausea.

Lucifer whined, his expression shocked, until an outright scream of agony, or fury, Castiel could not tell, broke from his lips. His body was thrashing, contorting, caught inexorably in the tide.

Castiel continued to watch, frozen, as Lucifer took staggering, stumbling steps onward.

Lucifer was close to that gateway to nothingness; mere feet away.

Castiel’s eyes finally fell to that hole once more; drawn directly to Dean's face. His face that was pale and numb, blank; a mask.

Cas stumbled forward himself at that, his legs giving way a little at seeing what appeared to be nothing more than the empty shell, a vessel, something that once held Dean. It seemed as if the man was no longer in there. Castiel knew, in the nothingness that was a hole in existence, the absence of everything, where the shades simply disappeared, Dean was disappearing too. He was getting darker, _less_.

With a sob racking his chest he wrenched his eyes away, fastening them on the spoiled ground.

He couldn't turn to look at Jimmy— He knew what he'd see. Could not look back to Dean—

He would be alone after all. The same beast that caused his life to derail almost from his birth would snatch the two reasons he had found to finally start living now that he was free.

Lucifer was the end of everything for him from the very start. Even if Dean would never have wanted the two of them, he had known that he had found something in the man. His brief glimpse of a real life, with real connections, real people, real emotions, a place where he finally felt fully alive; it wasn't going to last. Wasn't going to even get a chance to grow. He had barely even woken up.

Through tears of loss he watched the specters redouble their efforts, streaming faster, until, even knowing all he could see was merely half of their number, they appeared as a white blur, dragging Lucifer along with them. Castiel could see specters smothering him, dragging him, inch by inch through the tear.

Castiel's heart grew heavy as the specters continued to flow, swamping the Devil with their matter, dragging him through to the _Nothingness._

He saw pale fingers grasping at the edge of the tear, the last few specters trickling through. A feeling of gratitude, of relief, poured from them. 

Through that rip, he finally met Dean's eyes; red rimmed, as tear tracked as his own and terribly, terribly sad.

The edges were pinched by fast fading hands, closing it steadily, inch by inch.

Dean didn't try to leave.

Castiel turned away, the tears that ran unchecked, obscuring his vision.

He only flinched and swallowed as he noticed a noise—or more the lack of noise, a gulf in his hearing. He couldn't even hear his heartbeat or his breathing. The background noise to the world was simply terminated.

The air became solid, caved, bent, sprung out, turned around on itself; leaving him dizzy without moving. 

He snapped his head around just in time to see those palest of figures, the nebulous spectres, almost joyfully surging forward to topple Dean, at their head, through the gap.

He landed with a dead thud, all other sound rushing back in almost painfully, the air lifting, tingling unpleasantly against Castiel's skin.

He hesitated half a second before he was running, his brain taking a moment to understand the evidence of his eyes. Dean had been thrown clear of the void.

He skidded to his knees, shaking Dean by the shoulders, a litany of words falling from his mouth, begging him to be alive.

Dean was cold under his fingertips, even through layers of clothing. His skin, pale and clammy. His eyes, open the tiniest slit, only showed the whites. Blood was dribbling from his ears and nose.

“Dean!” Sam's voice suddenly sounded from right next to him, the man knelt in the mud and dead grass, fingers pressed insistently to Dean's neck.

Castiel held his breath, convinced that Sam was about to announce Dean's death. Sam remained paused, unmoving for too long as he felt for Dean’s pulse.

Dean's chest was motionless. Castiel's chest clenched in fear.

“There—there's a pulse.” Sam's voice cracked as he slumped in relief, his eyes closing, the tension leaving his face. “He's alive.”

Castiel knew how he felt, but he didn't have a moment to spare. He pushed up from the ground spinning as he moved to run to Jimmy.

With Dean in no immediate danger he could spare enough thought to get to Jimmy's side.

He  _needed_ to get to Jimmy's side.

Before be could even get to his feet, he was tackled to the ground, landing hard with a grunt.

“Cas!” Arms came up around him, strong and stable, smelling of blood and fear, but mostly of home.

“Jimmy,” he mumbled into the man's neck as he pulled himself up to his knees once again, not letting go of his boyfriend. Refusing to let go. Jimmy was alive. He nearly broke down sobbing in relief.

“Is he alive?” Jimmy asked, his voice strained, cracking with worry.

Castiel nodded, looking over Jimmy's shoulder, his frame collapsing in relief in his arms, as Sam answered aloud. “Yeah, he's unconscious, and—that place did something—it's like he has a fever. But he is—he's breathing.”

Castiel nodded again, looking up from Dean's white face to Sam's.

But Sam wasn't looking at Dean, held tight in his arms, he was staring at the rip,  _The Empty,_ Lucifer had called it. 

The hole was small now, a strange thing hovering in the air, only a foot across. Cas' eyes still found it hard to look at, like focusing on glass that wasn't there.

Wispy fingers still pulled at the seams, fewer and fewer, pinching, drawing the edges in. 

Castiel flinched as something real, dark, _red,_ moved within the hole, within The Empty.

His bile rose and he tightened his arms around Jimmy as he tried not to rear back in fear.

A solid, warm, flesh hand, dirt smeared and bloody reached forward, gripping the edge of the hole, scattering the frail translucent fingers closing the gap.

The hand of John Winchester.

Lucifer's hand.

Cas swallowed, crushing Jimmy to him, both of their necks craned to watch.

A sinister, angry susurrus began. 

Tiny fingers reached, pale as bleached silk, as transparent as river mist, a sliver of sea glass. They grasped, plucked, pulled, as insubstantial on their own as smoke, but together—

The hand, clenching, straining, reaching, was dragged back. Pulled from sight. Lucifer's wail of rage was brutally cut off as those last ghostly fingers sealed the tear closed, leaving a strange hanging sense of satisfaction in the air. But not one other trace.

Sam crumpled, pulling the still unconscious Dean up to his chest, rocking him close.

Castiel smiled. “We've won,” he whispered. He felt Jimmy hum, his warmth rumbling right against his chest, then his lips, dry and warm, pressing against his neck, out of sight of anyone who might be looking.

“Uh, guys?” came Gabriel's voice, startling them all, causing Jimmy to leap from him.

Cas looked up to Gabriel, standing forgotten behind them, on edge, sword out, eyes darting.

Castiel's eyes slid from Gabriel's face to the mass of encroaching enemies.

Leaderless demons, weak but still dangerous, filthy and bloody, and the last rotting Silent Croats, intelligent and hungry.


	17. Chapter 17

At Gabriel's words, Jimmy pulled away from his boyfriend, the man's shoulders stiffening under his grip. Jim's head was still spinning from where he had landed on the hard ground, but he could feel the Grace inside of him protecting him, healing him.

The ring of relentless and feral demons and croats encroached slowly, clearly uncertain after their leader was taken so rapidly from them. Jim could practically taste their fear and confusion hanging in the air, but the demons and remaining croats were desperate and hungry; they wanted blood.

Jimmy could sympathise with their confusion, he wasn't entirely sure what had happened himself.

He was sure, though, that they were in trouble.

The croats and demons were hesitant now, but the ring was getting smaller by the second, tighter and deeper, more of the afflicted scenting the battle. Jimmy knew that their hesitance would not last long.

“We—”

“We're screwed,” Gabriel cut him off, voice flat. “The other teams have been swamped. We’re alone.”

“Unless— Don't suppose there's any of those specter-things still around?” Sam asked, voice cracking at Gabriel’s words.

Jimmy and Castiel both looked around the battle strewn graveyard. There wasn't a single one in sight.

“Even if there were, we can't control them. Only Dean can do that,” Castiel remarked from where he knelt next to the man's motionless body.

It seemed ironic, Jimmy thought, that they had somehow all survived Raphael and Lucifer, a God damned rip in the air that sucked specters in and spat Dean out—only to fail now. Only to fail as the rabid and foul faced demons gained confidence and stepped closer between the headstones, baring their teeth and flashing their black eyes.

Still, Jimmy thought, dying this way was better than rotting and crumbling, as the raw, torn Grace within him ate him up and boiled the skin off his bones.

“Then we fight,” Jim finally stated. 

He mourned the fact, as he looked at Dean, wan and bloody, that he would probably never get a chance to talk with Dean  _and_ Cas. They would probably never get any time together. If the demons didn't get them, then the Grace would.

Adrenaline shot through him at those thoughts, lighting up his nerves, causing a flip of semi-sentient Grace inside, twisting in anger and sadness, fear and jubilation.

“The Grace,” he said quietly, looking to Sam, who had been motionless, holding Dean's hands in a white knuckled grip.

Castiel’s steely gaze met Jim's a moment later.

Those eyes, he knew, were identical to his own, but they seemed so different, able to emanate a warmth, a love, or a terrible righteous anger that Jimmy wasn’t sure his ever could. Every one of those emotions lashed across his eyes in that moment, letting Jimmy know just what he was thinking. 

Cas would fight for everyone here, even if it cost him his life.

Jimmy nodded.

He would do the same.

“We only have two angel blades,” Gabriel stated, doubt in his voice. 

Sam frowned, finally rolling Dean gently onto his side and staggering to his feet. 

“True, Gabe, but I got a shotgun, and we have the iron blades. I'll keep going with an exorcism. It worked before. It might be enough—”

Jimmy turned to Gabriel as he grunted in response, his fingers automatically gripping the hilt of the knife tucked into his holster.

“Here,” Gabriel said holding out his hand to Jimmy, a flash of silver in his palm. “This'll work a Hell of a lot better than that iron toy.”

“What—” Sam began, before Gabriel cut him off as Jimmy's hand closed around the cold metal of the angel blade.

“I may not have enough strength to fly y'all outta here, but I can still smite, just about. You give Raph's blade to Cassie here, and use your gun and your fancy words.” Jimmy smiled at Gabriel's words, feeling a touch of relief and gratitude that this god had chosen to help them, had chosen their side. Had chosen life. _And was still helping._

Sam raised an eyebrow, but nodded, unstrapping the gun from his back and pulling the salt rounds from his pocket. Salt rounds that would probably kill demons this weak.

Jimmy clenched his jaw shut and squared his shoulders, taking one last, long look at Castiel. Their eyes connected. There was understanding there. Cas blinked and Jim nodded.

They turned away from each other, resolved. Identical blades gripped in their identical hands, raised and at the ready, dull with blood in the dying daylight. They faced their enemies, a cemetery full of the dead, the dying, demons and croats, those braying for blood, those simply wishing to maim and kill. Standing either side of Dean's prone form, they bracketed him, daring a demon, a croat, to try and get to him; the man who had saved the world. 

“Ready boys?” Gabriel asked, a smirk finally back on his face.

A smirk that didn't waver even as the first demon rushed forward.

Jimmy answered with a grim “Yes,” and felt the Grace rise up.

-

Sam felt that foreign power coursing along his arms, filling his veins with something corrosive, but full of energy. It was almost like a drug, he could feel his body wanting more of it, wanting to let it take over. 

He wondered how long he would have, how long until he let it have him fully, and destroy him in the process.

Sam's thoughts evaporated as the first demon stumbled forward boldly, teeth bared.

He raised his gun and began the exorcism.

Sam's first shot hit a demon clean in the chest, causing it to yelp, it's waxy dead skin shifting with the force of the hit. The body hit the floor, black smoke pouring from the dead thing's nose and mouth.

He didn't have time to feel disgust before he was spinning, aiming again and again, reloading, then finding yet another new target. He drew in breath to yell the Latin that would expel the demons from their stolen bodies.

In his sights, he briefly saw Castiel, who had been _too_ upset over Dean.  He saw him stab the long, slim angel blade through the eye of a demon, lighting it up gold from the inside, before it slid from the blade, a lump on the ground.

Sam took a huge breath, watching with satisfaction as six demons fell at once as he finished the exorcism. He began again, spinning to shoot a demon in the head that was trying to sneak up behind Gabe where he was straining, eyes screwed shut, forcing his green glowing Grace to burn a demon out from the inside.

Another shot, and he saw Jimmy rip his blade up through one of the last remaining croats, spilling his guts from groin to sternum.

And, Sam just kept going, chanting the words, his voice hoarse, breaking, never stopping.

He yelled the last word of the litany as he spun once more, shoving fresh cartridges in the gun, lining up another shot, firing straight at the head of a particularly strong demon, creeping up on Dean.

He didn't bother wasting breath on wondering aloud how long they could last.

He only had another four cartridges left.

All the stolen angel Grace in the world wouldn't shorten those odds.

“Boys!”

Sam's head reared up.

That had been Bobby's voice.

There weren't alone.

“Bobby!” he yelled, hoping that the older man would be able to fight his way to them, help them fight their way out. He had all but given up hope that any of the other groups had survived, were able to help, especially after Gabriel’s statement.

“Come on!” Bobby bellowed, suddenly appearing in a gap between a demon that staggered forward, back full of rock salt from another’s gun, and a tumbling Silent Croat, it's body falling to the ground, separated entirely from it's head.

“Aw Hell! What'd you idjits do? He ain't dead is he?” Bobby huffed as his eyes fell upon Dean, still, silent and bloody where he lay.

“No!” Castiel answered, before Sam got the chance, his deep voice strained as he stabbed the silver blade up into a demon's rib cage.

“Good,” Bobby spat, “Now get a fuckin' move on! We've got a path cleared.”

Sam ducked back over to Dean's prone form, throwing the shot gun to Jimmy as he went. He crouched, pulling his brother up and throwing him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift.

Behind Bobby, hunters were fighting in the cleared path, just keeping the snarling demons at bay, the fighting heaviest at the imposing metal gates.

They ran.

-

“This is— This is really quite clever,” panted Castiel as he dropped to his knees, totally exhausted, bruised and out of breath. 

He dropped the angel blade, careful not to touch any of the lines of the enormous Devil's Trap they'd found haven in.

Even with the demons in possession of only their weakened powers, Cas and the others had just barely managed to outstrip those giving chase, leaving them howling in fury on the edges of the huge trap. Dug into the sodden grass, in lines of mud, the demons could not cross the line without becoming stuck inside with close to fifty hunters. It was huge, obvious, crude and perfect.

It seemed amazing to him that not far over the rise of ground, Dean had rid the world of the Devil.

Already, though, the scarred lines in the damp earth had had a croat thrown over them by an enterprising demon hoping to break the trap. 

The croat had been quickly dispatched; a fresher fighter than Cas had plugged the demon with rock salt, causing it to evacuate it's body, it's grip on this plane too weak.

“Good trick, huh?” Bobby said, wheezing heavily only a few feet away, one foot planted firmly either side of one of the inner lines.

Castiel nodded, finally starting to catch his breath.

“We thought about making—a ring of smaller ones—giving us a clear section in the middle, but—” he paused longer to drag in a deeper breath. “But we didn't have enough time, so, if they come in, they're stuck in here with us.”

“How long have you been here?” Cas asked, wonderingly. Stuck being ridden by Raphael, he had not been aware of his imminent rescue at all. He couldn't imagine that the hunters would have been in the vicinity long, planning such things while he was out killing hundreds—

He blanched. Bobby shook his head.

“Gabriel moved some hunters around for us while Ellen and I built the spell to break Raphael's Grace. The others had a little time to spare.” 

I—” Cas hesitated, bewildered, eyeing Dean's still body where Jimmy was trickling water into his mouth, his eyes still firmly closed and unresponsive. 

At least the bleeding had mostly stopped, he thought.

“I figured we might've needed a safe haven once I saw how many friggin' demons turned up with old Lucifer.”

Castiel hummed in agreement, tired to the bone, his eyes landing on Jo, her head being tended by the medic.

He pick up the blade as he got back to his feet, noting for the first time just how covered in mud and blood he was.

“Come on son, Ellen and Ash made sure we got enough food packed still.”

Castiel widened his eyes, realizing just how hungry he was, forgetting, as he usually did, that Raphael never fed his vessel, keeping him alive with Grace.

That thought snapped his attention to that uncomfortable warmth trickling through his muscles. 

He knew how the unstable Grace affected the vessels. He, Sam and Jimmy may survive longer than regular humans infected with the croatoan virus, being built to hold angelic strength. But they were not built for the broken, torn, volatile pieces they were now housing. 

He wondered how long they really had.

He groaned around the hunk of bread Ash handed him. The dry, stale stuff tasted better than anything he could remember eating before.

Ellen chuckled, low and dry and handed him an old plastic bottle full of water, which he downed most of before he got an elbow to the ribs for his trouble.

“Ash!” Ellen reprimanded the man, but Cas handed the bottle over anyway, feeling guilty. Water was precious.

With a nod he took the rest of his bread and stumbled over to Jimmy on weak legs, slumping to the ground by Dean.

“Hey,” Jimmy greeted him with a stressed, worried smile, stroking his hand over Dean's forehead.

“Hey.”

“Y'know,” Jimmy swallowed, and continued. “I was adamant that you would be coming back to the both of us—” Jimmy's voice choked off and he swallowed back tears, but Castiel's thoughts had ground to a halt. He stared at Jimmy, oblivious to everything else.

“We— like each— He liked, likes both of us. We talked, we kissed. We decided to wait until we could talk to you, but— Now— Look at him.”

Jimmy was on the verge of tears, and Cas wanted nothing more than to pull him into his arms, but he couldn’t, not here, not surrounded by the majority of the camp. It broke his heart.

“Sam's thinks he'll be okay right?” he asked voice rough. “He isn't here, with Dean, so…” Cas left his sentence hanging, letting Jimmy's jumbled thoughts calm. 

While he waited he allowed a tremulous warmth to filter back into his system, building and building until a smile tentatively broke onto his face. “He— He really wants this? Us?” 

Jimmy's features softened a little as he nodded sadly.

“Hell yeah,” croaked Dean's voice.

He and Jimmy snapped their heads down to look at Dean. He had a lazy, dazed smile on his face, bloodshot eyes open, if unfocused.

“Dean!” Cas exclaimed, his palms already reaching to cup his face, leaning forward, desperate to kiss him, before he second guessed himself and pulled back, worried.

Dean blinked heavily, “I—maybe later?” he asked, rubbing a finger against Cas' knee, their only point of contact without Dean having to move. “Like, maybe, when I'm not feelin' like death? Pretty hazy on how I'm not actually dead.”

Dean's eyes darted from his face the moment that Cas felt someone come to a standstill behind him. “Way to scare me jerk,” Sam said, his voice just as tight as Jim's had been, his own too.

“Gotta keep you on your toes somehow, bitch,” Dean answered with a cough and a wince. 

“Easy there son,” Bobby chipped in, approaching on quiet feet as Dean struggled to sit up. “You're safe for now, take a breather.”

Dean looked up with a pathetic scowl on his face, but then gladly slumped where he sat, taking the bottle of water from Bobby and sipping slowly. “Ugh, I feel like I got hit by a truck,” he grumbled. “How did I, er, make it out?”

Confusion, concern and fear were evident on his face. He looked vulnerable.

“The specters,” Cas began. “They threw you out.”

Dean's eyes widened as he sat up straight, coughing with the effort, but hissing out a “Lucifer—” anyway.

“Caught in The Empty.” Loki's— Gabriel's voice cut in and Dean slumped back, relieved.

Castiel frowned as he looked at the being that had taken him from his parents, his brother, and scowled. Gabriel, had fought with them, clearly on their side. Cas obviously had a number of blanks to fill in since he was last taken, but, he found that he couldn't be angry about their abduction. He had lost a family, true, but gained a lover— Two.

“I, er, hate to keep asking questions here,” Dean stated, “but, is there a reason we're in a huge Devil's Trap with butt loads of demons surrounding us?”

Cas leaned in a little and plucked Dean's hand from the cold ground, and placed it gently between his own, feeling a thrill at something so new.

He didn't have a chance to see Dean's reaction as Bobby shifted uncomfortably, pulling off his baseball cap and swiping a hand through his sparse hair. A scowl touched his features. “Balls.

“I didn't expect them to move in so fast, or that they'd be so—energetic,” he finished with a sigh, pulling his cap back on.

Dean started under Cas' hands, looking confused.

“We're going to have to move. Now,” Bobby finally said after a moment chewing his lip and staring at the rowdy wall of demons, ever growing.

“How? Where to?” Cas asked, looking out at the circle of demons.

In amongst the walking corpses of demons and regular croatoans, the last Silent Croats were falling into piles of rotting flesh and mouldering bone, some of the weakest demons falling similarly, black smoke pathetically drifting into the ground.

But, those self destructing were in the minority. Bobby was right, the numbers were too overwhelming, they were too many, too strong.

“Where's Chuck n' Ash?” Bobby asked decisively, making Dean raise his eyebrows.

“They're ready,” Ellen said, jerking her head behind her to the center of the circle, where the horses stood placid. “Good. Okay. Get mounted everyone.”

Castiel almost laughed at the look of dismay on Dean's face. “You— Really?” The man whined, gray circles already staining his cheeks under his eyes. 

“Come on,” Castiel said quietly, reaching out his hands to help pull Dean and Jimmy up.

Dean scowled, but took the help anyway. “Huh. I guess I didn't get them all then?” Dean asked cryptically, nodding out at the circle of demons.

Cas frowned, but then understood as he followed Dean's gaze, his fingers tightening around Jim’s palm. 

Faint, hard to see in the remaining daylight, were specters. They floated amongst the ring of demons and croats. There were not many, fainter than Cas had ever seen them, once again aimless. 

They paid no attention to Dean whatsoever.

He shivered as a croat jumped the line, it's feral nature getting the better of it, and got a bullet through the brain for its trouble. 

From it's corpse rose a fresh, even fainter, blob-like specter, drifting on a breeze they couldn't feel.

Dean dropped his hand, shuddering too. “I am so glad I don't have to see that all the time.”

Cas looked back to Dean, a small smile on his lips as he thought about the man's home, about spending time with him. “They can't get through warding,” he said looking down, suddenly a little shy, dropping Jim’s hand too.

He swallowed at the thought, helping lead Dean across the muddy lines in the earth toward the horses. He wanted nothing more than to spend time with Dean and Jim inside the camp, together. His fingers tightened on Dean's forearm at the thought—

Before he remembered the sick and torn Grace burning him from the inside out, that was.

Castiel's smile dropped and he shook himself. “We need to get you to your horse.” 

Dean's face, too, was closed off once again, a frown cutting his forehead deeply, but he nodded slowly, shrugging Cas from his arm.

Jimmy was at Cas’ side a moment later. They followed Dean, giving him a little space to process, Jim bumping their shoulders together as they walked. 

“Everything okay?” Jimmy asked, his voice tired.

Cas hummed, watching Dean's back.

He nodded, but answered in the negative anyway. “The Grace.”

-

Dean, outwardly scowling, would have asked to be strapped to Falcon if there had been an option, if his pride would have allowed it. As it was it had been a close run thing, just preventing himself from begging  _anyone_ to sit behind him on the gelding to ensure that he wouldn't simply topple from his back. But, after listening to Sam's murmured plan it was clear that speed was about to be of the essence, and Falcon, though strong, couldn't go from a standing start to a gallop with two grown men on his back.

So he would have to tough it out, through the tremors, the pounding head, and the crippling worry about Sammy, Castiel and Jim. He would have to ignore the dizzy spells and nausea and general weakness, and cling to his damn horse's back no matter what. He was Dean Winchester— Miraculously alive, despite believing he had died in the— _The Empty,_ the nothingness growing until that tiny speck of real life _beyond_ had been completely gone, Lucifer's screeching fading  into silence, numbness engulfing him—

But then he had awoken to Castiel and Jimmy's voices discussing him, discussing being  _with_ him.

There could have been worse ways to come back to life.

He smiled weakly to himself as he swayed, wrapping the long reins around his wrists again in the hope that the added security would help him stay in the saddle. He refused to think of that broken Grace again.

He took a moment to look over at Ash, who was already mounted, holding a small megaphone, hooked up to one of the increasingly rare battery packs they hoarded when society really broke down. “God knows what possessed him to bring that crap, but thank fuck he did,” he murmured aloud, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

He willed his rolling stomach calm as Ash turned on the speaker and cleared his throat, the sound crackling across the graveyard and fields, cutting across yammering demons. “One, Two. One, Two. Testing.” Ash drawled, getting a tense laugh out of the remaining crew. They had lost some of their best fighters to the demons around that cemetery. He wasn't sure knowing they had beaten the Devil was good enough recompense.

Sam took the megaphone and motioned for everyone to get ready, causing weapons to be hefted and reins to be gripped. 

Dean didn't know the whole of the plan, too incapable of focus when Sam and Bobby had been talking, but he knew the element of surprise was not going to be with them.

He and Falcon were tucked into the middle of the mounted camp, Bobby having laughed at him when he'd asked for his gun. His job was to stay on the horse and ride until they were safe.

The camp was arranged like a battering ram, almost everyone armed and grim faced.

From the back of Ghost, a scrap of paper clutched in one hand and Ash's megaphone in the other, Sam began reciting the exorcism, arcane and strong enough for the purpose.

Dean could only watch in horrified fascination as the demons immediately began squirming, accompanied by Gabriel's laughter. They were hacking, coughing, staggering. One was on her knees screaming, scrabbling at her throat with rotting fingernails, pulling the slack flesh free from bone as black smoke began to trickle from her collapsed nose.

It was a horror show.

Within moments the only bodies still standing were those of regular croats, looking bemused and hungry.

On Sam's last word, the spell broke.

“Go go go go go!” yelled Ash, jerking his horse into a run, Sam joining the shout and kicking Ghost forward. Falcon leapt forward of his own accord, leaving Dean reeling in the saddle, Bobby's fist connecting with his shoulder to slump him forward again. Ellen was shouting too, everyone was moving.

There were still demons behind them.

Falcon leapt a corpse with neat steps as Dean twisted in the saddle.

Behind him the survivors of the mission were safe, guns and knives taking out the last croats trying to attack as they passed.

He spotted Castiel and Jimmy on their borrowed horses in the rear. Castiel stood in the stirrups, mouth snarling and eyes almost closed in a frown as he slashed a machete in a downwards blow through a croat’s neck. Jimmy was wild eyed and grinning manically, a gun at his shoulder, firing indiscriminately behind him at the raggedly following demons.

Dean smiled, heart beating hard in his chest.

He couldn't have fallen for two better people.

-

It had been a gruelling ride back for Dean.

Without Lucifer or Raphael, all the croats and other supernatural beings seemed to have become desperate or fearless, coming out in full sight in search of their prey.

Every time they stopped to rest, or find water for the horses, a vampire, or a demon, shapeshifters or lamia appeared, causing the camp to flush them out, kill them as one, and get back to their tasks. All Dean could do was look on and watch, useless, his energy sapped, spent and exhausted. The Empty had taken something from him.

Gabriel had snorted, and told him he was overreacting and to grow a pair when he had raised his concerns on the first night. Later the angel had been overheard talking to one of the hunters, describing the Empty as a place that took everything from you, including your soul. For the living, that meant a few days recovery time as his soul revived.

Dean had scowled, but accepted the information for what it was.

He had just held onto the reins for three days, sniffing back a constant nose bleed, passing out the moment he hit the ground as they dismounted for the night. 

Sam had taken over, ordering everyone to pitch their tents, and to share their depleted rations. Often, Dean had woken up in a tent, gentle snoring next to him, but he had never turned to find out who it had been, falling asleep instantly again, out cold 'til morning and waking alone.

Finally they were back.  _Home._ But Sam, Bobby, Ellen and the others hadn’t allowed him to go back to his hut, curl up in his undoubtedly cold bed, to sleep. 

They had half carried him, despite his protests, to the council room. They had insisted on food and drink. They had wanted to talk, to celebrate and commiserate.

Dean had been handed fresh bread, rabbit stew and hot, strong, spiced ale. Yet, he hadn't been able to make himself eat. He wanted to pretend it was guilt over the loss of so many lives. But, he admitted to himself, he simply didn't have the energy.

At least he was warm, finally, for the first time in days. He wriggled his toes in his boots at the thought, surreptitiously swiping his sleeve across his bloody nose once again. 

He looked up to check the fire was built high, that there was enough wood, wanting to stay warm, but instead, he found every eye in the room expectantly watching him.

“Wait, I— say again?” he asked, frowning. He hadn’t heard a word.

Castiel winced at the cracked quality of his voice, looking as if he wanted to help, to allow Dean to leave, but he didn't make a move. Dean scowled at him, even as he understood. It wasn't up to Cas. It was _supposed_ to be up to Dean.

“We asked, Dean,” Ellen said gently, getting his attention, “if you wanted to elaborate on that last part of that plan you made?”

Dean stared dumbfounded at her.  _What plan?_

“Ellen,” Sam cut in, “can't we let him rest before we interrogate him? I mean—Just look at him.”

Dean huffed out a breath in irritation at that. Besides a little tiredness, and maybe the nosebleeds, there was nothing wrong with him. 

He stared at the flames in the fireplace while Sam and Ellen started arguing across the table, only focusing when Jimmy leant into him, his breath warm where he whispered into Dean's ear. It made Dean aware of how much his body ached. 

“You wanted to save the world remember? After you got Cas back? After you killed Lucifer and Raphael? They want to know if you have any ideas, how you wanted to do that.”

_Oh, that plan_ , he thought. But he frowned, something wasn't right. They weren't ready for that.

Ignoring Ellen and Sam, he spoke mainly to Jimmy, but the room fell silent anyway, too accustomed to listening to him, to ignore anything he had to say.

“We fight,” Dean croaked out. “We do what we have always done. It isn't up to us to fix the country, or the world, but we can kill the supernatural, those who mean humans harm. Without the Devil rallying them, and without Raphael forcefully infecting camps and holdouts we might have a chance. But—”

He paused, his eyes drooping as he finally looked around the table. “But, we haven’t killed Raphael yet,” he finished hopelessly. He looked at Jimmy, Sam, and Castiel, hoping the chapped condition of their skin was simply from the cold on the ride and had nothing to do with the Grace within them. 

He knew better though. They were going to die. And soon.

All three of them dropped their heads, fear, anger, worry and resignation in every line of their bodies. Dean felt panic rise up, sour and sharp. It was the first true emotion he had felt in days. 

He couldn't lose them, not any one of them. He had to find a way to save the—

“Ah hem,” said Gabriel, who, as usual, seemed to have only just appeared. “I was wondering when you morons were gonna bring that up!” 

Dean simply looked at him, sniffing again, too tired for his games.

Gabriel made a sound of disgust, “You're all so boring these days. You just saved the world! You could be a little happier!” No one reacted. 

“Fine! You wanted to kill Raphael? So kill him! An angel blade will do the trick!”

And, with that, he disappeared, leaving Dean confused and angry and bewildered and just trying to comprehend, to process.

Gabriel wanted them to kill Sam, Cas and Jim?

Sam exploded in an irate display of swear words and arm waving until Bobby cut him off mid-stream.

“Wait— Boys?” he asked, directing his question to Castiel and Jimmy. They looked to him, listening. “When you're bein' possessed, the angel fills all of you right?” 

They both nodded dumbly, frowning. “I mean, he don't just sit in your heart or head?”

“Oh,” Jimmy said. “No, the Grace is everywhere.” He shrugged, clearly unable to explain better.

Bobby hummed in thought and scratched under his cap. “One o' you wanna volunteer to get a brand new scar?”

Dean sat up, a flush of surprise and hope lending him energy. “You think we can pierce the Grace with the blade, killing _it_ , without killing the—the hosts?”

Bobby shrugged. “Worth a try? It's only a piece, mightn't need a stab to the heart, maybe the arm? or—”

“Could you stab us in the shoulder without killing us?” Jimmy pitched in, voice suddenly warm, excited, his eyes alive, gleaming as they flicked between Bobby and Dean.

“I— Yeah? There's a spot there that shouldn't cause you any problems if we're careful, I think?” Bobby answered, a questioning look sent to Jackson, who nodded grimly.

Jimmy shrugged. “The closer to our center, and the deeper, the better. It may fill us wholly, but the Grace flows, almost like blood— Or, at least that's how it feels. It congregates in the chest and head.” He shrugged again, with a half smile. “And, I don't really fancy getting stabbed in the head.”

Dean smiled at that, sniffing, and swiping another dribble of blood away from his nose.

“Okay then,” Bobby said, a smile in his voice as he eyed Jimmy. “I'll go get the surgeon.”

Dean nodded, satisfied, the edges of his vision just beginning to dim to black.

-

Castiel's clung tightly to Jimmy's clammy hand.

They were sitting in what passed for an operating room in the camp. Hardly clean by medical standards, but it was good enough. 

Jimmy took a swig of the rough whiskey that Bobby distilled sneakily in the basement of his home. It must have been more than 100-proof, as far as Castiel could tell, but without anaesthetic, was the only option to help numb the pain. 

“Where's Dean?” Jimmy asked, focusing on the neck of the bottle, strain and worry obvious in his voice.

“I don't k—” 

“Ellen told me that he had passed out,” Sam said from his spot in the corner where he had been eyeing Jimmy and Cas. His voice was tight, his expression bleak. “Bess has got him in the recovery room. They aren't sure what's wrong beyond exhaustion.” 

It was clear that he was desperate to be by his brother's side. 

But with a poisonous piece of Grace inside all of them, they had their priorities.

“He's okay?” Jimmy asked, looking over to Sam quickly.

Sam shrugged, the line of his shoulders tense.

They were all tense.

Jimmy nodded, gritting his teeth.

“O— Okay. Right. Let's get this over with,” Jimmy stated, squeezing Cas' hand and picking up the wad of leather the surgeon had given him to bite down on.

Jimmy lay back in the dentist style chair, eyes closed, hand clamped onto Cas'.

Castiel half listened as the surgeon, gray faced and without the camp's tattoo, droned on, explaining when he cleaned the skin, when he sterilised the angel blade, as he tutted over the width of the blade, and how difficult it would be to stitch up afterwards.

Cas zoned right back in the moment that he picked the blade up, and, without warning stabbed it hard into Jimmy's right shoulder making him jerk in his seat and scream around the gag in his mouth.

The surgeon grunted and pushed down further, the sickening sound of flesh tearing filling the room.

Jimmy screamed again and blue-white light filled the darkness of his pupils. It flickered, bright and violent.

“Jim!” Cas yelled, getting to his feet. Burning Grace-light streamed from his clenched mouth and from around the protruding blade in his bleeding shoulder. Blinding, the fractured, shattered, flickering light cast terrible shadows across the inside of Castiel's eyelids.

He clung on to the man's hand, unthinking, just needing to hold him, needing to keep him there.

The light dimmed abruptly, and died. Jimmy, spent, flopped back onto the chair, gag dropping from his gaping mouth. 

“Jimmy?” Castiel asked quietly. He was white, too still, not even breathing—

The surgeon, momentarily taken aback, simply grunted and pulled out the blade, needle and thread already in his hand. Castiel was frozen, unable to ask if Jimmy was even alive as only a few rivulets of blood welled up and out of the wound.

“Looks cauterised,” the surgeon grumbled, poking indelicately at the wound, a frown on his face.

“Well?!” Castiel finally broke, looking up pleadingly at the doctor.

He hummed in question then rolled his eyes. “He's unconscious. The pain.”

Castiel slumped back in the chair he was perched on, huffing out a heavy breath, “Oh thank fuck.”


	18. Chapter 18

Jimmy looked up from the report he was reading, as Sam, face dark, walked quietly into the room.

“Any change?”

Jim sighed and looked across to the bed where Dean still lay sleeping. Just as he had been for more than a week.

He shook his head.

Sam grunted, hesitating a moment before opening his mouth to speak. “Bobby and I would like to have a word with you. Jo's on her way to keep an eye on Dean.”

“Can I ask why?” Jimmy asked, frowning. He, Sam and Castiel were all still recovering from the wounds inflicted by killing the remains of Raphael's Grace, the shoulder injuries healing much faster than they should have, but still too painful and stiff for most work.

Castiel was on the watch tower while Jim read reports for Bobby while keeping watch over Dean.

They were all worried.

He sighed, wondering if Sam had something serious to say. He had seen him that morning, after all, when they had attended the morning meeting and he had collected the thick and pulpy pieces of handmade paper he was thumbing through.

Sam scowled. “I think it's better Bobby says. I'll see you over there.” And with that, he left.

Jimmy frowned.

He frowned still harder ten minutes later as he sat down next to Castiel in the council room and exchanged equally confused glances. Neither of them knew what this meeting was about.

“Okay boys,” Bobby huffed out in a sigh. He sounded bored, annoyed and tired as he stood behind a chair, hands gripping the back.

Jim and Castiel shot each other another glance, sharing a minute shrug, just as Sam walked in, shutting the door firmly, and dropped into a chair across the table from them. He folded his arms across his chest. Bobby took a seat at the end of the table close to Jim and Cas.

“Sam here,” Bobby spared the younger man a look, “wants to raise some concerns.”

“What about?” Castiel asked abruptly, eyes fixed on Sam, clearly scenting something, something to do with Sam’s attitude toward them.

There was strained silence.

“Well boy? Now's your time. It's your problem, not mine.” Bobby huffed, a scowl on his face.

“I think you two are taking Dean for a ride,” Sam announced, sitting angrily forward in his chair, fixing both Cas and Jimmy with a glare. “I don't want him to finally wake up and get his stupid heart broken!”

Jimmy was too taken aback to answer, wondering what Sam actually knew.

“It's obvious he likes you—” He bit his own words off, shaking his head minutely looking confused before shrugging and continuing. “Both of you as far as I can tell! God knows why, and it's also—” He stopped, screwing up his face, “I've become aware that you—that you two—your—you don't treat each other exactly like brothers!” Sam finished, voice an octave too high.

Jimmy couldn't speak. It was clear that Castiel was speechless too.

They'd been so careful, had continued to spend their sleeping hours in the dorm room, rarely together for long. The last time they had _touched_ was before Castiel had been taken, and he ached, so badly, for the man's warm flesh.

But Dean's absence from their relationship now seemed to stand in their way somehow. Just as Castiel's had, too.

They had kissed once, the first day they had been allowed out of the medical huts after the surgery. They had gone to see Dean, had stood at the end of his bed, hand in hand and told the man just how much they looked forward to seeing him again. They had told the unconscious man that they were both okay. Then they had kissed, leaning into each other, sharing their worry and their love and their longing.

Jimmy had left shortly afterwards, to speak with Bobby, and Castiel had taken the first of their many watches over his bedside.

Jim looked over to Castiel, feeling Sam's eyes on him, and saw Cas' understanding dawn. That that kiss must have been witnessed. That they had given themselves away.

Sam had always been a little cold with them, but it had become worse in the past few days. They saw Sam so rarely since he had taken on the running of the camp, that it hadn't really registered though.

“See?” Sam exclaimed, gesturing at them but looking at Bobby, who rolled his eyes.

“Cool, yer jets. What they do is their problem, I've just seen the world almost-but-not-quite-end. Social norms hardly seem to matter any more, kid. The issue you raised was that you thought they were screwin’ with our boy.”

“Well! He'll wake up and find out that they—that they're—”

Jimmy felt Castiel stiffen next to him. He had had enough.

“He'll wake up and discover that his two boyfriends are there, right next to him, overjoyed that he is alive and well.” Castiel's words were scathing.

“He knows?!” Sam yelped.

Jimmy snorted, Sam's face was a picture. “Of course he knows,” he answered tiredly. “You really think he would be so relaxed, liking us both—to the point _even you_ noticed—without having talked about it at all?”

“Jimmy and I love each other,” Cas added, “and if that stubborn bastard wakes up, we could tell him that we're falling in love with him too. Now, if that's all? I'd like to watch him until dinner.”

Jimmy smiled as Castiel stood up decisively, clearly done with the conversation.

His boyfriend was beautiful when he was angry.

“Idjits,” Bobby mumbled as Jimmy stood and followed Cas out, Sam open mouthed and confused.

“Hey,” he called as he jogged to catch up with Castiel's angry march. Cas just grunted. “He was just looking out for Dean. You have to admit, they took it kinda well.”

Castiel stopped short, turning to face Jimmy.

A small smile crept up onto Cas' face, lighting his blue eyes with warmth. “Yeah, I guess they did. Come on, let's go and persuade him to wake up.”

Jimmy grinned.

-

Castiel closed the dog eared book, prompting a yawn from Jimmy where he was curled up in a chair across the room. The last words of the chapter trailed off into the silence of the medical room.

He couldn't bring himself to look up from the cover of the book grasped in his hands. Not again, not another night where he had read for hours and Dean simply continued to lie there, unmoving, a drip secured to his arm, Jimmy tired, sad and red eyed.

It had been two weeks.

His shoulder barely even ached any more.

He and Jimmy were starting active service the next day, going on a raid to the nearest city.

Yet, Dean still lay sleeping.

Castiel was beginning to be certain that he was gone in every important meaning of the word.

Jimmy cleared his throat, then gasped. Castiel frowned.

“I think the Hobbit's somewhere under my bed if you're done with that one,” came Dean's rasping and dry voice.

Cas looked up and caught the silent tears falling down Jimmy's shocked face. The goofy smile, too.

Then he was on the bed next to Dean, hands on his face, his chest, his hands.

“Are you okay?” he choked out, “how do you feel? I—”

“I feel… hungry,” was Dean's response, a sleepy lopsided smile touching his lips as he cut Cas' babbling off mid-stream.

“Welcome back Dean,” he croaked out around tears he refused to let fall and pressed a light kiss to Dean's lips.

-

Cas didn't need the gentle wrap of Jim's knuckles against the wall dividing them to let him know that Dean had returned to his hut. He could hear him grumbling.

“They knew I'd be out today, for fuck's sake, I told them! And they fuck off? Fuckin'—”

Cas bit his lip as the quiet words were swallowed by the thump of a body hitting the freshly made bed, his mumbling continuing into the sheets.

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, thinking their plan had already gone awry. Jimmy was probably standing silent in the bedroom, where he was supposed to have welcomed Dean, gotten him comfortable, relaxed.

Dean clearly hadn't noticed him—

Cas decided it was time to act.

He slowly slid his fingers from his hole, gritting his teeth in an effort to remain silent at the drag and slide.

He'd been getting prepped for what seemed an age, waiting for Dean to return to them.

On bare feet, and shivering against the cold, even with a fire heating the room, he padded into Dean's bedroom.

Jimmy was standing in the corner, shrouded in darkness, watching Dean with a fond expression. He offered Cas an apologetic shrug before hungrily fixing his eyes on Cas' erect cock.

Dean was lying face first on the bed, fully clothed, seemingly unaware they were there.

How could he think they wouldn't greet him?

Without warning, Castiel slid onto the bed right next to Dean, running his palm down his spine, making the man jerk and roll over, instantly alert. He took Cas in with a wary, but softening gaze.

All of him.

From bare feet, all the way up his naked body, his want obvious, to the healing tattoo and brand under his collarbones, up to his face.

“Cas,” Dean gasped, his surprise melting into a smile, before his eyes dipped to his lips, then his cock.

“Hello Dean,” he answered seriously, resting a hand on Dean's hip, keeping him distracted.

“I'm sorry you thought we weren't here. We've been waiting for you.” He shrugged, watching Jim walk around the room and kneel on the bed behind Dean, now just as naked as Cas.

Dean's eyes widened and he swivelled to look up at Jimmy, his mouth dropping open as he almost came face to face with Jim's dick. “Er—” Dean swallowed and scrabbled onto his back, pushing himself up the bed a little, away from Castiel and Jimmy on either side of him.

“Hey,” Jimmy smiled reassuringly, kneeling down by Dean’s hip. Cas rolled onto his belly and looked up at Dean.

He ached to touch Jim, his cock red in the reflected glow from the fire through the door. But he ached to touch Dean too. Ached to _be_ touched.

But Dean… Dean looked spooked.

“It's okay, Dean,” Jimmy continued, earnest, “you— _we,_ none of us have to do anything.” He shrugged, “Cas and I, we can get dressed again—”

“No!” Dean blurted out, before rolling his eyes to the ceiling and huffing in embarrassment.

“It's just—I wasn't expecting you to, um, well, this.”

Cas smiled. The man was too endearing. “How else would you have liked us to welcome you home Dean?”

Dean's eyes fixed on his, his mind clearly churning, until he huffed out a breath, followed by a laugh. “Nah. This. This is good. Shit, I wanna kiss you—both of you.”

Castiel grinned, a bubble of warmth expanding in his belly.

He pushed up, only slightly softened, and crawled toward Dean, feeling his eyes, _both_ of their eyes, upon him.

He straddled Dean. Jim's fingers ran down the arch of his spine as he pressed his fingertips to Dean's cheek bones, smiling at the awestruck look on his face.

He couldn't move past the fact the this man was so changeable, one minute hard and brutal, the next in wonder that someone wanted to kiss him. He was constantly fascinating. Castiel was enamoured.

He ran his fingers down Dean's jaw line as he leaned in, aware of his cock pressing against Dean's belly even as their lips met. He groaned as Dean opened up to him. Dean’s fingers brushed up his legs as Jim's lips met the back of his neck from where he still knelt next to them both.

It was too much already, and one of them was even still fully clothed.

He leaned back, panting, his eyes glued to Dean's slick lips until Jimmy dipped forward, capturing them for himself.

While they kissed, Castiel busied himself licking and sucking down Jimmy's shoulder blade and neck, blindly unfastening Dean's jeans. Dean's fingers reflexly tightened on his thighs but he lifted up to allow Cas to work the clothing off his hips.

Cas gasped and smiled to himself when Dean's flushed, hard cock sprang free. He leaned back, unable to stop himself from looking; he couldn't help but run his finger up the underside, following the vein.

He was grateful he had prepped himself so thoroughly. Dean was thicker than Jimmy. Just as beautiful.

Dean whined and his hips jerked as Cas' finger slid off the head, leaving his fingertip wet. He wanted to taste but—

“You need to be naked,” Jimmy announced breathlessly as he pulled back, snaking an arm around Cas and latching his mouth on to the bolt of his jaw.

Cas was lost.

With his head back and eyes closed he moaned as Jim's— _someone's_ fingers curled around his cock. The sensation was blissful, being brought pleasure by one of his two lovers.

He was left reeling as both the fingers and lips left him, instead, fabric moving under his balls, against his thighs as Jimmy tugged Dean's jeans and underwear fully off, leaving the man's hot, bare flesh underneath him, perfectly spread out.

“Fuck, you're beautiful,” Cas whispered, taking in Dean's pale skin, freckles, his anti-posession tattoo, the dusting of hair—

He dived in and sucked one of Dean's nipples into his mouth, reaching blindly for Jimmy next to him. He ran his hand up and down Jim's hip, loving the feeling of his smooth skin under his palm as he rolled the hard nub of Dean's nipple between his teeth and tongue. His other hand snaked around Dean’s torso, his hands running over the uneven skin of a scar at the back of his shoulder blade.

A gasp and a moan had him lift up to look at Jimmy. His hand was gripping Jim’s hip, biting into the flesh, grounding him as Dean's hand was wrapped around his dick, pumping hard and fast.

At that sight, Cas knew he couldn't wait any longer.

He threw himself toward Dean's bedside table where, earlier in the day, both he and Jim had raided Chuck's supplies for condoms and lube, and filled the drawer.

He groaned watching Dean jack Jim off. His focus was intense, while Jimmy's expression was blissful, mouth agape, breathing hard. Seeing Jimmy lose control like that for someone else shot a bolt of heat right through his cock.

Cas bit off a moan and pre-come slid down his length.

Neither one of them were paying him a single bit of attention. Watching Dean lick his lips, cheeks pink, mouth too close to Jimmy's leaking head, Cas tore open a condom and, with no warning, slid it down Dean's straining dick.

The reaction had Cas stuttering his hips forward, rutting against thin air on Dean's thighs as Dean flinched and gasped with a shout, throwing his head back. Jimmy moaned, thrusting his hips forward, working himself in Dean's fingers where they gripped tightly around his shaft.

“Dean,” Cas panted out, wanting, _needing_ the man to look at him as he sank down on him, as he took him completely.

Those green eyes darted open, his head coming up, wide, hungry, needy.

Castiel lowered himself down, first feeling Dean's head nudge against his cheeks, then dip in to press against his twitching hole. He felt Jimmy's hands rake through his hair, and lips on his neck as he sank lower, Dean's swollen cock breaching him. Dean's eyes were glassy, his hands tight in the sheets.

Castiel whined deep in his throat as Dean's cock filled him, the heat unbelievable. Shock waves of pleasure were running up and down his spine from his neck to his ass and cock.

He bottomed out.

Dean broke the eye contact by arching his spine back in pleasure, groaning.

Castiel pulled Jimmy from his neck and dragged him in to kiss him properly, working his tongue deep into his mouth, tasting him, feeling full, wanting more, needing Jim.

A shocked moan travelled straight into his mouth from Jimmy and Cas just knew that Dean was jerking him off once more.

Cas was still motionless, just sitting, impaled, impossibly satisfied to feel so complete.

Jim pulled away briefly, and Cas ran his fingers across Dean's flat, soft belly, running his fingers through the hair where it tapered down and disappeared under his own heavy bobbing dick and tight balls.

“Dean,” Jimmy asked, his voice just a rasp, making Cas shudder in pleasure, “finger me?”

Cas' hips jerked forward at that, making Dean gasp, his weariness swallowed instantly by want as he nodded.

Slowly, watching avidly as Dean's fingers hesitantly crept up the back of Jimmy's thigh, Cas rose up off his dick. The slide of Dean's length inside of him was beautiful, and Cas lost himself again as he slowly sank back onto Dean, taking all of him inside. The drag, the heat, the fullness; he kept moving, slow and steady, grunting each time Dean's rocking hips pushed up into him on his descent.

“Fuck, you're beautiful,” murmured Jimmy's broken voice, and it didn't matter that Cas didn't know who he had meant, only that the words were true, that Jimmy's rasping curses meant he was lost too.

He sped up. Rocking faster and faster, moaning deeply when he slid forward and back at just the _right_ angle, his hands pressing hard into Dean's hips, enjoying the give of muscle under flesh.

“De— Dean,” Jimmy panted, breaking the slick slide of wet flesh and heavy breathing. “Ple— Please suck me—I can't—I need—”

Cas squeezed his eyes closed to hear Jim sound so ruined.

“Uh, erm—” Dean muttered.

Cas slowed, letting him breathe, letting him think. Dean needed to be able to decide.

“I— I don't know how,” he said through heavy breaths his eyes fixed on Jimmy's cock. Castiel groaned, his ass twitching around Dean at the admission. He was a beautiful contradiction.

“Sit back,” Jimmy ordered, sending lightning down Cas' spine. He wouldn't last long, even untouched, if Jimmy kept that tone of voice up.

Dean leaned against the cushions he had been propped on, looking apprehensive. Cas started rocking his hips again, distracting, pleasuring.

“Open up. Relax, lick, suck. No teeth. I'll be careful. I promise.”

Cas kept his eyes fixed on Jimmy as he leaned in, the pad of his thumb pressing at Dean's lips, dipping in and opening his mouth wide. He whined as Jim leaned forward, his thighs quaking, pressing his head close to Dean's lips, and paused; waiting.

Cas thrust down heavily as Dean, eyes fixed on Jimmy's face, tentatively took him in hand, his tongue darting out, swiping, flat, across the leaking head.

The sound Jimmy loosed was pure eroticism. The sound Dean made when Jimmy slipped slowly between his lips shot straight to Cas' cock.

He bit his tongue to stop from coming, rocking faster and faster anyway, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of Jimmy sliding home in Dean's mouth, shallow and slow.

Dean groaned, eyes rolling back as Jimmy slid out, and back forward, so slowly, patient. So stunning.

Cas threw his head back, willing himself calm, listening to Dean's ever louder moans, rocking into the thrusts of his hips under his weight. Jim's moans mingled, deeper, rougher, familiar, but no more gorgeous. The two of them together were all he needed.

He heard Dean's muffled shout before he felt the man's pulsing heat within himself as Dean came, hard and violently, popping off Jim's dick, and thrusting hard up into Cas, gripping his thighs to keep him flush against Dean's hips as he stuttered through his orgasm, wet lips wide, and green eyes screwed shut in a frown.

It was almost enough to send him over the edge—

He looked up to Jimmy, knelt hovering over them both, his eyes flicking between Dean and Cas, panting, biting his lip, desperate to let go.

“Ji— Jim—” he panted, suddenly needing to see him release, needing to watch Dean painted.

It was watching Jim finally let go that sent Cas hurtling toward his own orgasm. Seeing his come spatter Dean's freckled torso, watching Dean's wrecked face, knowing Jimmy's flushed expression.

He came _hard,_ mixing his release freely with Jim's on Dean's belly, clenching hard enough to make Dean whine and gasp and collapse back with a loud curse.

With loose limbs and a grin, he rolled off Dean, pulling Jimmy down with him, so they could all lie in a sweaty, panting heap together, come covered and satisfied.

-

Jim crept out of the room, desperate for water in the middle of the night. He looked back at his lovers, his boyfriends. Beautiful in the dull glow cast by the fire, eclipsed by his shadow. Messy, too big for the bed, limbs everywhere, dirty and naked, they were everything he wanted.

-

Dean awoke and froze in panic.

One of his lovers was rutting slowly against his ass.

“Shh… it's okay, Dean, I won't—just—this is nice.” Jimmy's sleep heavy voice muttered as his hand came to rest on his hip. “You don' need t' do anythin'”

Dean relaxed, slowly, his cock responding despite his reservations.

It wasn't as if he hadn't been covered by the man's come the night before.

That thought sent a shiver down his spine. _Last night._ It had been amazing. He had expected his—his _boyfriends_ to be in his hut when he had been released by Bess, declared back to normal after his weeks spent unconscious. As he had walked in the door he had known immediately that _someone_ had been thoughtful, leaving a bowl of bread and a flask of beer, and lighting the fire to heat the building. But he had been disappointed when they had not been there to meet him, finally allowed a moment’s privacy together.

But, they had surprised him. In more ways than one, their nakedness, their readiness— It had made him more conscious that he was the inexperienced one among them. It had left him reeling a little.

But, he had found his stride, the noises the men made, the feel of their bodies against his, hard plains and angular lines, their stubble when they kissed—

And their love making had been honest, unlike so many of the women he had been with, tossing their hair and moaning falsely.

Jim and Cas had never been with anyone else. They hadn't been out to impress. They just wanted to share their bodies with him.

He groaned at the thought, cock full as Jim's dick slid wetly between his cheeks, catching at his rim and making him jerk and gasp.

“‘M'sorry,” Jim mumbled. He pulled back, retreating, the movement clearly unintentional.

But, Dean needed him close. Needed him and Cas, far more than he was scared of trying _that_ just yet.

He reached back and pulled Jim close again, pulling the man's hand to rest on his hip, before it slid lower, weaving into his pubes.

“S'this okay?”

Dean just hummed in response, not daring to thrust forward to encourage Jim's grip, in case he dislodged his slowly thrusting cock.

“Stroke Cas,” Jim breathed into the back of his neck as his fingers curled around his shaft and he propped himself up on his elbow.

Dean opened his eyes finally. In front of him, sprawled beautifully, dark hair a mess, eyes closed in sleep, was Castiel.

Tentatively, Dean reached over, running his hand down Cas' taut belly, still finding it strange to be touching a man, but arousing. It was like finally being allowed a treat he had been denying himself for years.

Cas was flaccid, but, as he gently rubbed him in time with Jimmy's thrusts he stiffened and lengthened in his hand, making Dean's belly swoop with excitement.

They lay like that, Jimmy jerking Dean off and rutting against his rim, Dean's hand on Cas. It didn't take long for Cas to awake with a moan and a gasp, instantly rolling in to exchange lazy kisses with Dean and Jimmy in turn.

They brought each other to climax as the sun rose beyond the window.

-

Dean patted Falcon's neck as he straightened his saddle blanket, grinning into the horse's coarse gray hair.

He couldn't banish his memories of the morning, or the night before.

He didn't want to. But, he had to stop smiling like an idiot and giggling like a schoolgirl.

He had to pull himself together. This was his first mission since being thrown from The Empty.

Three weeks lying down hadn't done his body any favors. He was looking forward to getting back out there, even if this was an easy hunt to begin with. He had already missed too much, including the funeral for the dead, and Amy bringing little baby Deanna into the world. A choice of name he was still acutely embarrassed and pleased about.

But he couldn’t let himself be seen grinning like a fool and unable to keep his hands from his, still mostly secret, boyfriends. Even if their reverent words had made him feel—

He shook his head, rolling his eyes; he was a professional. He bit his lip and tried not to grin again as a shiver of arousal ran through him.

“Dean.”

He breathed out, putting on a calm face, and turned to his brother. “Sammy?”

Sam wore his best bitch face. “You ready?”

“Aren't I always Sammy?” he said, making his brother scowl even harder. “Buckle up kiddo!” he called, a grin now ruining his mask as he swung up onto Falcon's back.

“Dean.”

“Oh, for heaven’s— What?” He looked down at Sam, who had his hands on his hips, until he slumped, dropping his eyes to the mud underfoot.

“They're— They really do make you happy huh?”

Dean was surprised, but willing to answer for once, if only to have his brother back on his side. He had missed him. “Yeah, Sam. Yeah they do.”

He spoke quietly, a smile on his lips when Sam looked back up at him. Sam just nodded, obviously unable to answer, and walked quietly toward Ghost's stall. Dean tugged on the reins and began turning Falcon toward Chuck and his precious pile of equipment and saddle bags.

“Oh,” Sam called. “It's, uh, it’s good to have you back.”

Dean smiled and nodded, calling a “Bitch” over his shoulder as he walked Falcon from the yard, grinning at Sam's “Jerk!” that followed him out.

He reined his horse in between between two young mares, Raffy and Lucy, and he smiled over to Jimmy then Cas, both smiling warmly back at him.

“Time to save the world?” he asked lightly. His boyfriends just nodded, smiling widely, flexing their bandaged left hands, fresh camp tattoos, inked only that morning, hidden underneath.

“Idjits,” Bobby muttered from the horse in front, shaking his head.

Dean rolled his eyes and grinned, spurring Falcon forward.

They had survived.

Save


End file.
